


The Notes We Write

by emmagrace13



Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Boyfriends, Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Crushes, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Writing Notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrace13/pseuds/emmagrace13
Summary: Cyrus Goodman is not the type to get in trouble.  Not at all.  So, when he lands himself 6 days of detention with Dr. Metcalf of all people, he isn't quite sure what to do with himself.When he discovers he has a detention buddy to endure the hour with, they start exchanging notes to pass the time.  Becoming friends with him was never something Cyrus anticipated, much less having a crush on him, but, as it turns out, life doesn't always go the way you expect.





	1. Bring Us Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember when my friend Di and I came up with the idea for this story back in October. Hard for me to believe that I've basically been living and breathing this idea for four months and am now ready to publish the first chapter.
> 
> Anyway, on that note, I present to you the first chapter. Please make sure to check out the artwork for this fic on @spaceottersart via Tumblr, or click this link [here](https://cyrusgoodboye.tumblr.com/post/182699499748/a-fic-by-cyrusgoodboye-art-by-me-cyrus-goodman).

_Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok._ Cyrus kept his eyes trained on the clock, the pit in his stomach swallowing him whole as the seconds ticked by.  Only ten more minutes until…

Cyrus gulped.  He didn’t even _want_ to think about what was about to unfold.

He remained stiff in his seat, his fingers wringing themselves together in worry.  The stomach churning events from earlier rolled in his head like film tape, worn and familiar, and Cyrus's heart sank to the floor, shame burning his face as he relived the past few hours.

 _I can’t believe I did that…_ a thought rang out, sharp and clear.  It had become a mantra throughout the school day, tormenting his thoughts.  How could he have been so _careless_?

Cyrus didn’t have time to contemplate his guilt as he felt an agitated _rap, tap, tap_ on his shoulder.  He whirled around to confront the perpetrator, only to face the wrath of his best friend Buffy Driscoll instead.  

“Cyrus,” she hissed, her face twisted in annoyance, “stop tapping your foot!  You’re going to be _fine_.”

His foot ceased in motion, and he ducked his head sheepishly.  He hadn’t even realized he had been doing it. It was a nervous tactic, he supposed.  He kind of had a lot of those.  

“No, I’m not!  Andi told me that detention was awful for her,” Cyrus whispered back as best as he could manage.  He hoped that the wobble in his voice went unnoticed, but, knowing Buffy, she detected it right away.  Buffy was observant like that.

“Andi also thought Mrs. Devlin ate students’ souls,” she argued back.  

Their seventh period teacher shot them an incisive glance at their not-so-subtle attempt of talking during class, and they pretended to return to their science assignment, although their ears still buzzed with their conversation.  

Once Mrs. Speck's attention was captured by a student in need of help, Buffy leaned forward in her seat behind Cyrus, wasting no time to add, “Besides, Dr. Metcalf runs detention now.  Mrs. Devlin retired last year, remember?”

Cyrus’s blood ran to ice.   _Dr. Metcalf?_

Jefferson Middle School’s newest principal was _not_ one to coddle and care for his students; upon meeting Cyrus and his friends for the first time last year, Dr. Metcalf had made this crystal clear by immediately dress coding his _other_ best friend, Andi Mack, without even batting an eye.  And thus had began the entire Freedom of Dress movement, a protest against the outrageous dress code dreamed up by their deranged principal. Although they had eventually worked the conflict out, Dr. Metcalf had still held something of an aversion towards the Good Hair Crew ever since.  He knew he was supposed to trust his principal (that _was_ part of Dr. Metcalf's job, after all), but he couldn't help but feel scared by his intimidating nature.  Besides, Cyrus was scared by nearly  _everything_.  Including flamingos, both real and plastic!

Cyrus’s heart stopped when the clock chimed 3:00 P.M., and the bell droned and rumbled (almost eerily, he thought with a gulp) throughout the school.   _My death toll,_ he thought to himself.  

Fear rippled in his chest, casting goosebumps up and down his arms.  This was it… _detention._

After waiting for the hallways to clear out (they were always so crowded at the end of the day, and, as a lover of keeping his body intact, Cyrus preferred to give everyone a head start instead of getting torn to pieces by the blood thirsty mob), Cyrus shouldered his bag and started his treacherous journey down the empty hallway.  His legs felt like lead with each step.  How could he live with himself knowing that he was about to put _six_ days of detention under his belt?  What would his parents think of him? Or worse, the colleges he was applying to? Would they think he was a miscreant, who just _happened_ to bribe his way into a nearly perfect GPA?  Would it go on his permanent record?  Did he even _have_ a permanent record before this...incident?  Questions pooled in his brain, forming pile after pile of interrogations that his brain was determined to fire at him at gun-speed, and he felt a headache building up along the bridge of his nose, creeping along his frontal bone.  Worrying about his future was going to kill him one day, he just _knew_ it!

Cyrus hardly even noticed when he had stumbled into the seemingly vacant detention room, room 34, and he blindly found his way to a random desk in the middle of the rows, perching himself onto the edge of the seat.  As Cyrus clutched his bag tightly to his chest, trying to absorb what little comfort the shield could provide, he contemplated the weight of the revolting sentence bestowed onto him by Dr. Metcalf.  What would _become_ of him?

He drummed on the desk in an anxious beat, the clicks of his fingernails against the tabletop echoing in the empty classroom.  Fear seeped into his veins as he awaited Dr. Metcalf’s arrival.  This was _not_ part of his plan.  His plan was that he’d pass middle and high school with flying colors, go to an Ivy League college, _graduate school._ These days of detention ( _and_ his past failing PE grade) were inhibiting him from reaching out and accomplishing his only arranged goals in life.  How come just when he was able to get around a stumbling block, another one was put in its place?

Cyrus heard faint footsteps from outside the door, and he turned his head expectantly, fearing the presence that was about to enter the room.  He could almost _feel_ his principal’s cold demeanor, and a shiver shot down his spine at the thought of it, the hair on his arms to standing on end.   _This is it…_

The door creaked open, and Cyrus crawled back into his imaginary shell, hoping it would protect him from his frightening principal.  He felt like he was in a horror movie; he, the naive protagonist, and Dr. Metcalf, the thrilling monster who was relentless in his pursuit to torment him.  

Or maybe he just had an overactive imagination.  That’s what his therapist (slash stepmom, but _details_ ) always told him!

Finally, Dr. Metcalf emitted from the entrance, footsteps booming, and he walked with such an intimidating stride that Cyrus thought the desks would tremble and topple over in fear alongside him.  Why couldn’t _he_ strike fear into the hearts of passerbyers like his principal could?  His only special talent was running into glass doors and then _apologizing_ to them.

Metcalf spared him a pointed glance as he situated himself into a squealing swivel chair, and Cyrus felt himself shrink back into his seat.

“H-hi, Dr. Metcalf,” he greeted waveringly, his voice squeaking above its normal decibel.  He gulped, hoping his heart wouldn't give out on him as he tried to beg his principal for forgiveness.  “I will do _anything_ I can to keep this incident off of my permanent record.”

His principal snorted incredulously.  His stomach fell.  “Cyrus, this is not something the school district takes lightly,” he told him.  Cyrus felt his shame intensify, settling deep within his chest.  

“I know,” he told him sincerely.  “And I’m willing to do anything to make up for it, I _promise._ ”

“Is that so?” Dr. Metcalf inquired, bringing his finger to his chin in thought.  He looked sharp and clean cut on the outside, professional and sophisticated, almost, but Cyrus could see that underlying edge he had to him.  How if you got to close, he could bite, bleed you out with his words.  That was probably what scared him most about Dr. Metcalf; Cyrus didn't know how to respond to that.  Or how to recover, either.  “It might require you doing some volunteer work in the community,” his principal said, rifling through an assortment of papers on the desk.  

He drew a single sheet from the stack, whipping it against the air to straighten it, and his eyes dragged across its surface.  

“Okay, tell you what.  If you volunteer at Jackson’s Street Gym on April 6th—” it was currently February the 25th, Cyrus noted silently to himself, “— _and_ fulfill your six days of detention, then I’ll forget this ‘incident’ ever happened."  He raised both of his eyebrows like this was really important, which made it feel more like a business negotiation than a nervous boy that sweat too much asking for a second chance, but relief flooded his stomach anyway.  His eyes lit up in hope.

“You mean it?” he asked incredulously, a touch of excitement reaching his voice.  Maybe his future was saved after all!

“Yes,” Metcalf told him.  “ _But,_ ” Cyrus faltered, “promise me that you’ll _never_ do this again.  Okay?” He arched his eyebrows intimidatingly, and Cyrus nodded his head feverishly.

“I _promise_!” Cyrus added.  He would do _anything_ to keep something like this from happening again.  He figured that Dr. Metcalf wouldn’t be so forgiving the next time.  Even if it _was_ an accident.

“Good,” his principal commented.  “I’m glad we can put this behind us.”  

 _So am I_ , Cyrus thought.

Just then, the door clicked open, and Cyrus’s breath hitched in his throat, his lungs restricting in his chest.   _Another student?_ Detention was already mortifying as it was, but now he had to endure it with someone else?  What if it was someone he knew?  

His stomach churned uneasily.  He didn’t _want_ to spend an hour in detention with another student! What if it was one of the infamous school bullies like...like Reed?

Any relief that was previously in his chest suddenly fell away, worry suffocating him instead.  Reed made Cyrus uneasy in a way he couldn't explain, and...and he _really_ didn't want to have to spend time alone with him.  _Especially_ with Dr. Metcalf supervising him, of all people.  He was pretty sure his fear would collapse him into a pile of anxiety and faltering breaths and fumbling words if he were locked in a room with both of them at the same time. 

The student walked through the threshold, and something caught in Cyrus's chest for an entirely different reason.

_T.J. Kippen._

Somehow, this was almost worse.

Cyrus didn't exactly have a history with T.J.  Well, he  _did_ , but he was pretty sure T.J. had no idea about it, or at least that Cyrus was involved, anyway.  

He held his breath as T.J. sat down in the desk beside him, heart stuttering in his chest.  

Cyrus stared for a second, then two, taking in T.J.'s slouched demeanor, his swept back hair, his green eyes flashing with something hard.  Apathy, maybe.  Total and complete boredom.  Or maybe annoyance.  Maybe all three.

T.J. shifted in his seat with a huff, and Cyrus finally let his gaze drop.  He stared at his paper until his eyes grew bleary.

“You’re late, T.J.”  Dr. Metcalf's stiff voice called out.

T.J. seemed indifferent to their principal’s words, and Cyrus silently envied his carefree attitude.  He cared _too_ much sometimes.  His feelings were often like the waves in an ocean, always sweeping him up in their powerful grandeur; he was either barely afloat or completely submerged.  Left to drown.

“So?” the boy said, crossing his arms together in a defensive manner.  Cyrus flinched at the sharp edge of his voice.  Dr. Metcalf wasn't the only one who could cut people with his words, he guessed.  “I forgot the room number.”

Dr. Metcalf sighed, pinching his nose as if T.J. was physically shredding his last nerve into confetti.  “You’ll have to stay a few minutes after, then, to make up for what you missed,” he told him with an incisive glance.  T.J. shrugged, almost as if he didn’t care what the principal did to him.   _Nothing_ could touch him.  

Cyrus shivered at their exchange; he wondered how someone could achieve that level of apathy.  

“Anyway, you both know why you’re here.” 

Cyrus and T.J. eyed each other out of the corners of their eyes, and Cyrus _swore_ he caught a hint of amusement glinting in the other boy’s.  But, in a blink, it vanished, and Cyrus’s gaze flickered back to Dr. Metcalf, his brow drawing together in confusion.  Had he seen that right?

“I suggest that you spend this week in detention learning from your mistakes and knowing not to do them the next time around,” Dr. Metcalf warned.  The principal’s gaze seemed to linger on T.J.'s face for a moment longer than necessary, and Cyrus noticed the small detail. (He blamed his four shrink parents; they were always brainwashing him with their psychology tells.)  What exactly had T.J. Kippen done to be here in the first place?

If Buffy were here, she'd probably say he got detention for being a Total Jerk (that was her theory on what T.J. stood for; Cyrus couldn't exactly deny it, even though he wasn't sure if being mean warranted detention).  Now, though, he wondered what _really_ landed T.J. here... 

Dr. Metcalf turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, tapping them against the tabletop in an attempt to organize his working space, and Cyrus's attention was drawn to the noise.  “As you know, Mrs. Devlin retired last year, so I get to run detention now.”

A small smirk ghosted the principal’s lips, and Cyrus felt his stomach turn uneasily.  Dr. Metcalf was having _way_ too much fun with this.  

“As for the rules: absolutely no talking, no moving around, no texting, no communication of any kind."  An amused smirk grew on T.J.'s face, and Cyrus a pang went through him at the expression. A part of him was happy that he was capable of making an expression other than carelessness and guarded annoyance .  

“And don’t get any ideas, T.J.”

The boy dropped his smug smile, but a mischievous kind of mirth remained dancing in his eyes, and Cyrus wondered what T.J. was up to as he witnessed the two’s exchange.

“The hour starts…,” Dr. Metcalf paused, waiting until the second hand landed on the twelve, “now!”

The immediate quiet that followed made the tension sit heavily on his shoulders.  Cyrus didn't know that silence could be so loud.

He drew his math homework out from his folder (quadratic equations; they were hard sometimes, but he could manage by), and he delved right into the assignment, hoping he could move onto his history paper if he finished in enough time.  However, it wasn’t long until he felt a faint _tap_ on his desk, and he turned his head in confusion, his eyes finding a folded piece of paper on the corner of his desk.  

His eyes cut to T.J. in question, but he wasn't looking in his direction (although his eyes were _much_ too bright for him to just be doing his science homework, and the amused smile that ghosted his lips could _not_ have been conjured up by the workings of protein synthesis).  Cyrus gingerly took the note, keeping a vigilant eye on Dr. Metcalf, who was luckily knee deep in school reports and documents, as he unraveled the creased sheet of paper.  Finally, when he flattened the last crinkled edge onto the level plane of his desk into a _somewhat_ legible manner, his eyes trailed the single line of scrawl scribbled onto the notebook paper.

_So, do you hang out here a lot? -T.J._

Cyrus cracked a small smile.  He glanced at T.J. out of the corner of his eye, and from the entertained look adorning his face, Cyrus assumed he had posed the question in a joking manner.  Was it really that apparent that he wasn’t a regular detention-getter?

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to retain his goody-two-shoes image or create a bad boy reputation for himself…then his trashed 7th grade school yearbook pictures flashed into his mind and he grimaced.  Yeah, he wasn’t fooling _anybody_.

He thoroughly scanned the paper again, and he peeked at T.J., a calculating look riddling his face: what was his motive?  Why would he _want_ to talk to Cyrus anyway?  He was a nobody, (and the only out gay kid at school, nevertheless), and T.J. Kippen was the captain of the _basketball team_.  He wasn’t sure this was how the school’s social cliques were supposed to act: in the unofficial guidebook of _How to Survive Middle School,_ he was _sure_ there was some rule drafted into its pages that stated ‘cliques are  _not_ supposed to intermingle’.  He and T.J. were at opposite ends of the spectrum…this wasn’t how middle school worked!  Anyway, he couldn't reply to T.J., right?  After all that had happened with Buffy...but T.J. had never done anything bad to him specifically, right?

Cyrus found his pencil caught between his fingers and, after little thought, was scribbling back his own response to the boy, pushing down the waves of anxiety swimming in his head.

_Not so much.  Is it that obvious? -Cyrus_

He kept a watchful eye on Dr. Metcalf, and his heart pounded in his chest as his eyes flickered frantically between T.J. and his principal.  T.J. turned to him, almost expectantly. The daring gleam twinkling in his eyes seized him, _challenged_ him to break the rules _just_ this once, and Cyrus took a grand leap of faith, passing the note onto the other boy’s desk with a successful swivel of his wrist _._

Cyrus held his breath in fear, and T.J. huffed out a laugh, a tiny smile tugging itself onto the ends of his lips.  Cyrus wondered what a real laugh from T.J. would sound like.

Within a few moments, the paper appeared on his desk once more.

_Maybe a little bit.  What are you in here for?_

Cyrus grimaced as he read the note, each word puncturing his chest with a stab.  It was too embarrassing…nevertheless, despite being afraid of being _further_ humiliated, he found himself writing back to the boy’s question, forming his words with an almost painful meticulousness.

_I may have accidentally pulled the fire alarm…_

He quickly passed the note back to T.J., and he could tell without looking when the boy read it (if his snort was any indication).

_That was you?  Oh, my God, they called in the entire fire department and the superintendent, LOL_

Cyrus blushed deeply from the boy’s response.  As if his brain wasn’t reminding him every two seconds.  

It had been a total accident in the first place!  He'd been talking to Jonah in the hallway during their shared free period, soaking in his sunny smile and dazzling laughter and warm eyes, and then he'd barely leaned against the wall and it had just started  _blaring_.  And then everyone came out of their classrooms, ears clutched, and then Dr. Metcalf had been ushering them out the door with uncharacteristically frantic gestures, and then the _firemen_ came, and...

Yeah.  Cyrus decided that he was never going to live it down.

_In my defense, they just installed a new one!  How was I supposed to know it was so touchy?_

He could feel T.J.'s grin radiating from beside him as he read his words.  Cyrus much preferred his smiles over the angry lines that seemed to dominate his face most of the time.

 _At least you earned detention in style,_ T.J. wrote back.  

He couldn't help but smile.  Why was T.J. being nice to him, anyway?  Wasn't he supposed to hate everyone that wasn't cool like him?  

Then again, Cyrus thought Buffy was really cool, and T.J. hated _her._   He wondered what T.J.'s list of requirements was to receive this kind of attention from him.  He wondered if nervous boys that sweat too much was on the lineup.

 _What are you in for?_ he wrote next.  

He watched T.J. wrinkle his nose at the question before passing it back to him.  

_I keep skipping math class.  Turns out that jocks doing bad in school isn’t just a stereotype._

Cyrus frowned down at the boy’s scrawl.  Did he really think of himself that way?

_You skip math class because you’re bad at it?  Why don’t you just get yourself a tutor?_

He prayed the question wasn’t too forward.  He couldn’t help it! The need to help people was surging in his veins, constantly swaying and influencing his actions.

Cyrus passed the note back to T.J., but the paper rustled onto the floor, causing the two boys to turn to each other with wide eyes.   _Oh, no…_

Dr. Metcalf’s head shot up at the noise, and his eyes narrowed at them.  “What are you two doing?”

T.J. was quick to snatch the paper off of the floor and he stuffed it into his binder, away from the prying eyes of their principal.  “Nothing,” he defended lightly, shrugging with the art of indifference.

Dr. Metcalf stomped over to him and spread his fingertips onto T.J.’s desk in what Cyrus guessed was supposed to be an intimidating stance.  Whatever it was, it was working.

“Don’t lie to me, T.J.,” he said, raising an eyebrow.  Cyrus thought that if it were him, he would’ve confessed immediately, but T.J. just rolled his eyes.  A twinge of guilt didn’t even cross his face.

“I’m not,” T.J. claimed gently.

“Fine.”  The principal let up and pushed himself off of T.J.’s desk, giving the both of them a warning glance before walking back to his desk.

T.J. never replied to his note.

* * *

Walking home, Cyrus welcomed the background noise of Shadyside wholly.  The whirring cars, chirping birds, and wisps of conversations carried by the wind surrounded him in their mindless chittering, something that helped tune out all the white noise in Cyrus's own brain.  However, his mind still couldn't help but drift back to the cold deafness of the detention room, and his heart sank. T.J. didn’t so much as spare him a glance after Dr. Metcalf nearly caught them.  Was it so he wouldn’t risk being given more of their principal’s wrath?  Or was he upset by the note Cyrus had given him?  Although Cyrus was only trying to help, what if T.J. saw it as a sign of sympathy, pity?  He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to take that too kindly.

He decided he didn't want to know the answer.

 _Maybe people don’t always need to be helped,_ Cyrus thought to himself as he walked home, a defeated silence seeming to hover in the air around him.  He shrugged his shoulders, bringing his body close together in an attempt to make himself as small as he felt.   _Too bad I probably ruined that only chance._

Little did he know that they _would_ help each other, and a lot more than he realized…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, giving kudos, or bookmarking. It means so much to me and my collaborator, Di.


	2. Make Us Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We find more out about T.J. this chapter, which is always interesting. I hope you like it!
> 
> Don't forget to check out the artwork for this [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/182856921504/the-notes-we-write-chapter-2) at @spaceottersart on Tumblr, and bookmark this to keep up with updates! :)

T.J.’s pencil tapped against his desk, head pounding as the room spun around him.  He scanned over his math test, pencil tight in his grip, and the numbers on the page blurred together, foreign, almost.  Then again, math was basically an alien language to him, nothing but unknown variables and foggy constants, and it was something T.J. was scared that he would never make sense of.  He and math just… _clashed_.  Besides, who even cared about math, anyway?  Why would you _need_ to know the circumference of a circle for layups in basketball?

T.J. gave a quick once over to his quiz, mind whirring as he began to second guess his work for question three.  He poised his eraser over his random scribbles of numbers and letters (why were _x_ and _n_ used in math?).  Just as he began to scrub out his answers, jaw clenched, Mr. Coleman announced, “Only five more minutes until the test is over!”

Panic seized his chest, and T.J.’s head jerked up at the clock, heart sinking down to the floor.  A beat. Then anger pooled in him, flooded behind his eyelids. He could taste the heat of it in his mouth, stale and curling like smoke.  Anger always spilled through the cracks when other feelings were…too much.  It was blinding, numbed him from the inside out. Didn't let him dwell on the other things thrumming inside, threatening to rip their way out of his chest.  It was _easy_ letting anger take over.  Besides; T.J. was used to being mad, screwing things up.  It must've been in his genetic code or something.

He hurriedly scribbled down answers as he felt the time run out, an hourglass spilling down his chest.  He tried to tune out the ticking of the clock, but it bled through everything, turned the room red.  T.J. huffed to himself.  

 _Who cares if they’re right?_ T.J. tried to counter with himself.  _As long as you do all the problems, you can just tell Mr. Coleman you forgot to study._

Yeah, even T.J. didn’t think Mr. Coleman would buy that excuse.  And he was one of those saps who liked to believe the best in his students.  Even ones as stupid as T.J.

Steam was practically flowing from his pencil as the last few minutes of class fell away.  When the bell finally rang, T.J. slammed his pencil down, fists forming at his sides as Mr. Coleman called them up for their test packets.  God, he only had a few problems left. The proper courtesy would be to at least let him _finish_.

Or to let him replace his dysfunctional brain.  At least then he’d have one that _worked_.

He snatched his backpack off of the chair and slung one strap onto his shoulder, hanging behind everyone else.  As much as he hated sticking around for one of Mr. Coleman's infamous lectures ( _"You just need to apply yourself!"_ he'd say.  _"You're a good student, but you have to try more!"_  T.J. hated those days the most), he'd rather risk it than letting one of his classmates catch a glance of his half finished test.  Ugh.  T.J. thought he'd rather hear a million speeches from Mr. C than have anyone know about him, about how he was so stupid that he couldn't even find the slope of a stupid line.  What did that even mean, 'finding the slope'?  Everyone _else_ seemed to know.  God, what was wrong with him?  

Well, T.J. guessed if anyone knew the answer to that question, they would've told him by now.  Buffy Driscoll had tried once, he was pretty sure, about a year ago, but he hadn't exactly listened at the time.  His stomach turned at the thought of her, of that memory she held over him, and he shoved it down, so far into his chest that he hoped he could eclipse it for good.

He handed in his test, eyes glued to the whiteboard wiped clean behind his teacher.  T.J. could feel the disappointment rolling off him without even meeting his burning gaze, could detect the way Mr. C _always_ seemed to feel with T.J. after tests: like broken hopes and slashed dreams and faltering expectations, which felt like a _lot_ for a math teacher over a dumb algebra test, but it still felt that intense every time, no matter what T.J. did.  Mr. Coleman put a lot of faith into him, and T.J. had no clue _why_.  He didn't deserve that attention, the unwavering dedication Mr. C always set aside just for him.  He sort of despised it. He wished he could fall under the radar just like everyone else, wished he didn't have to be special, _different_.

There were a lot of things that made him feel different, though, like his math issues and the way he didn't seem to be good at anything and...and Cyrus Goodman.  But he snuffed that thought out before it could wander any further, could tangle up his insides like those intricate knots that Boy Scouts made. It was best to quiet his head when Cyrus popped into it.  He never knew what to expect, exactly. A lot of the time, he just felt funny in a way he couldn't explain. T.J. hadn't decided if it was a good feeling or not yet.

Mr. Coleman opened his mouth to say something, words of encouragement, maybe, a 'better luck next time!' or 'we'll find you a tutor that will stick around, don't worry!'.  Before his teacher could even get the words out, T.J. turned so hard out the door that his heels ached in his tennis shoes. He couldn't even look him in the eye.  He knew if he met Mr. Coleman's gaze, he'd collapse just as much as his grade was about to.  Splinter like rotting wood.

As careless as he tried to be, even T.J. couldn't help but hold some weight in authority figures from time to time.  It wasn't like he had any good ones in his own life, anyway. (Well, okay, _besides_ his mom, whatever.  She was okay, as long as she wasn't badgering him about grades and his dumb piano lessons.  But T.J. didn't like to think about that too much; it was sort of embarrassing, even _if_ he'd been playing since he was, like, four.  And his dad on the other hand…well, it was best to save that issue for another day.  Like, any other day, really.)

T.J. shoved his way through the hallway, could feel the stares glued to him.  The fear that rang in them. His heart turned hard like cooling glass. He _wasn't_ scary.  Why could no one see that?

Well, what had happened on Friday had only made things worse, he guessed.  If only they knew the full story. But of course no one cared about _his_ side of things.  No one ever really did.

He shoved his way through the congested hallway, tense shoulders cutting through the crowd.  A measly 7th grader with a backpack bigger than him tried to swerve T.J. and the cloud of anger that glowed red like a neon sign around him, but Backpack Boy only managed to slam into him.  He stumbled to the floor, bag slipping off of his too small frame.

“Watch where you’re going,” T.J. warned him, a sneer rising up in him.  It slipped out without him even meaning it to, which was even worse than _intending_ to be a jerk, T.J. thought.  The fact that he was so far gone that it was more of an instinct than a choice.

Something stung in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down.

The kid pushed up his slipping glasses and scurried away, fear shining in his eyes like a fireball sun.  T.J. continued to his locker, ignoring the way the stares had doubled, how they clung to his skin. 

T.J. resisted the urge to yell at everyone looking at him like he was some monster, shoved it down.  He'd already done enough damage the past week. Maybe even for the entire school year, if he was being generous.

He punched in his combination, then clenched his jaw when the door stayed stuck, huffing.   Couldn't he catch a break?  

He tried again, yanking at the lock, hinges squeaking as he dumped his algebra book inside.  Jeez, what he would give for a locker that didn't fight him back everyday. He might even do all the math problems in the world if it meant having a locker that _cooperated_.  At least he wouldn’t have to pick the lock open as much.

A piece of paper caught his eye.  T.J. glanced around cautiously before drawing it from his top shelf.  

The smallest smile threatened to break out on his lips.  

Writing Cyrus a note had been a split second decision, something he hadn't entirely though through in the moment, only knew that he wanted to, really, _really_ bad and that the urge was exploding in him, sparking in his chest like jumping fireworks.  He meant, he'd planned out what he'd say to Cyrus before, had practiced lines in his head, but he'd never planned on actually _doing_ it.  T.J. thought that was just one of those unattainable dreams that lived in his head, like passing a math test or playing in the NBA.  

But, by some sort of crazy, unbelievable miracle, they'd been thrown together by fate.  Or, as T.J. liked to call it, a faulty fire alarm system and an awful temper. (The temper being his.  But that wasn't important.)

So he'd written the only words he could think of.

_So, do you hang out here a lot? -T.J._

It was stupid.  He meant, really, of all things he'd planned on saying if he'd ever been caught face to face with Cyrus, _that_ was what he chose.  But it felt right, somehow, in that detention room, as lame as that sounded.  Because Cyrus _obviously_ did not hang out in detention a lot, not even close, and he thought Cyrus might've found it funny.  So he flicked it over to him and hoped for the best.

When Cyrus gave a soft laugh at his note, something so quiet and so loud at the same time, T.J. couldn't help but smile down at his science homework.  And when Cyrus _replied_ , well.  He was a little happy, to be honest.  A little crack in the hardened shell that he'd created around himself.

Look, he'd never expected that it would be a thing, alright?  Except now he sort of wanted it to be. And maybe Cyrus did, too.  He was hoping, anyway. Hope always got T.J. in trouble. One taste of it, and he was gone.

His eye caught the last line, the one he had never gotten the chance to answer, and something sour like guilt swept through him.  He sighed.

_You skip math class because you’re bad at it?  Why don’t you just get yourself a tutor?_

The thing was, T.J. _wanted_ to tell him about his...his 'math issues'.  And that scared him. A lot.

T.J. had tried to write back to him after Dr. Metcalf had nearly caught them.  More than once, actually. But he didn't know how to reply, how to form the words and anger and _shame_ that seemed to fill up his head, suffocated him.  It wasn't like he could, anyway. Dr. Metcalf was watching him so closely that he felt pinned to the wall, so he just went back to his homework and pretended like his mind wasn't spinning so fast that the tiles on the floor were dancing behind his eyelids.

He thought about slipping a note into Cyrus’s locker.  Thought that maybe he could keep this going. Well, whatever _this_ was.  Like he said, Cyrus made him feel all funny on the inside.  He was trying to make sense of that, the muddledness that was turning in his stomach.  It wasn't working out that well so far.  

T.J. ripped a corner off of a piece of notebook paper and scrawled on its surface, handwriting loose and hurried.  He knew it wasn’t much, but he wanted to keep their notes going.  No matter what.  They were like a buffer for his feelings, allowed the words constantly swimming in his head to escape before they completely swallowed him whole.  

He walked to locker 120 and slipped the paper inside.  Then he strolled to class, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

* * *

Cyrus was positively sure that T.J. Kippen would never speak to him again. 

He had convinced himself that their meeting had been a fluke, some kind of glitch in the universe.  A part of Cyrus wanted to seek him out and make sure T.J. wasn’t upset with him, but the other part felt defeated, collapsed in on himself.  

These self-deprecating thoughts riddled his head, pulling and tugging at him until he reached the entry of locker 120.  He fiddled with the lock, clicking in his combination with a silence that consumed the entire hallway. He didn’t know why his confidence was so deflated this morning; even his normal charisma fell flat as he spoke.  

 _It’s probably just one of_ those _days_ , he remarked to himself.  One where he was constantly wishing he was anyone but Cyrus Goodman.

Cyrus tugged at the metal handle after unhooking the lock, nearly banging the harsh metal against his forehead (now _that_ would’ve hurt!) as he opened his locker.  A slip of paper fluttered seamlessly down from the top shelf, landing neatly on the tiled floors by Cyrus’s feet.  He glanced around in confusion, wondering _possibly_ what this could be (and silently praying it wasn’t a prank thought up by Reed and his friends) when he snatched the note up off the ground, eyes catching dark letters scrawled in messy ink pen.  

_Don’t set off the fire alarm today, Detention Guy. -T.J._

His eyes skimmed over the note over and over again, wondering if the sheet crinkling in his hands was as real as it looked.  The whole situation felt surreal, an impossible dream that even Cyrus’s overactive imagination couldn’t conjure up.

After deciding that, yes, this was in fact real, and no, it wasn’t just a _really_ good forgery, Cyrus beamed.  So T.J. Kippen hadn’t forgotten him after all.  Who would’ve thought?  

But why hadn't T.J. replied to his note from yesterday?  Was it because he didn't want to get caught by Dr. Metcalf?  Or because he didn't want to share that piece of him with Cyrus?

The questions rolled around in his head, unanswered and unfulfilled, and Cyrus brought a hand up to his head.  He was starting to get a headache just trying to figure it all out.

Just as he decided to carefully tuck it away into the clasp of his binder, he heard a booming voice shout, “Boo!” 

Cyrus sprung up into the air, clutching the note dearly against his chest.  His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt the blood rush to his face as he was met with his perpetrator.  

“J-Jonah, you scared me!” Cyrus stammered.  

“Dude, that was hilarious!” he said, giving another laugh.  Cyrus tried for a small smile.

“Glad I could be of service!”  He flashed Jonah a thumbs up. A thumbs up was a friendly gesture, right?  He hoped the blush on his cheeks didn’t give him away.

“You and Andi both scare so easily!” Jonah remarked.  His voice had a touch of his familiar, charming mirth, and the hallway lights seemed brighter just from hearing Jonah Beck speak.  It made Cyrus’s stomach turn and twist like a rickety roller coaster.

Cyrus chuckled nervously, not quite sure what to respond with.  He hoped Jonah didn’t realize exactly _why_ he and Andi were both easily startled by his presence.  That they both had crushes on the same guy.

If only he could tell Andi.  

“I guess we do!”  His smile was thin.  

They shared a momentary glance, and Cyrus’s surroundings seemed to fizzle out into static as Jonah Beck, The Human Sunbeam, stared at him intently with his bright smile.  Were his teeth _meant_ to look so dazzly?

His eyes shifted down to Cyrus’s hands, the note still clasped against his chest, and Jonah stepped forward.  Cyrus's breath caught in his throat.

“Cy-Guy, what’s that you got there?” he said, pointing to the paper clutched in his hand.  Cyrus banged his elbow against the frame of his locker, wincing as he clutched the note behind his back.  A blush crept up his neck as Jonah studied him.

“It’s nothing!”  He cradled his arm, hoped Jonah dropped it, got the hint.  Then again, Jonah was basically the most _oblivious_ person on the planet.  He wondered how Andi put up with it, but then his stomach turned at the thought.  He didn't like dwelling on their relationship all that much, didn't like thinking about how Andi and Jonah were dating.  Again.

It was hard enough to get through the day knowing he had feelings for someone who could never return them.  It was even harder when they were dating your best friend.

Anyway!  He tried not to think about it.  He saved those thoughts for when he was alone in his room at night. It was easier to let something like that eat and chip away at you when there was no one else to stop it from happening.

“It doesn’t look like nothing."

“It is!” Cyrus insisted.

He shoved it into his front pocket (and winced when it crinkled in his pants; he made a mental note to smooth it out later) and hugged his books to his chest, desperately feeling the need to do _something_ with them to make this situation feel less awkward.

It wasn't like he was keeping T.J. a secret.  It was more like…well, Cyrus didn't know! He just knew he didn't want to stir up any problems.  T.J. Kippen was a longtime member of Buffy's personal vendetta club, and Cyrus knew how his friends would react.  It would be like putting the element Francium in water: explosive. 

Jonah seemed not to notice the almost suffocating tension pulled taut between them, and he laughed, squeezing Cyrus’s shoulder for a fleeting moment.  Cyrus tried to burn it into his brain, hope it seared whatever lobe that controlled memory so he couldn't forget Jonah Beck's hand on him. “Whatever you say, Cyrus.”  

Cyrus breathed out.  Hoped he didn't break from his smile.

The bell decided to ring just then, saving Cyrus from melting into the hallway tiles, and Jonah gave a dismissive wave.  “I’ve gotta run. See you later!”

“Bye!" Cyrus called out.  His voice was faint, disappearing somewhere inside his chest.

Once Jonah turned the corner, Cyrus closed his eyes, let his head hang against the cool metal of lockers behind him.  He wasn't exactly a big believer of the universe, not like Andi's dad, Bowie, anyway, but he _swore_ it was out to get him.  Life always seemed to dip him in the opposite turn of the one he wanted to take.

The warning bell rang again.  Cyrus lifted himself from his crumpled state and dragged himself to his homeroom class, his feet heavy.  He drew the crumpled note from his pocket, taking one last peek at T.J.’s loose handwriting. Cyrus felt a hopeful smile poke at his lips.  Slipping the note back into his pocket, he wondered how willing the secretary was on giving out students' locker numbers…   

* * *

History flew by in a blur.  T.J. could already feel the dates of the battles in World War I slipping from his head as he walked to his locker.  T.J. loved history class, don’t get him wrong, but he could do without having to memorize every date known to mankind.  It wasn’t like they’d stick, anyway. When it came to anything number related, nothing did.

He unhinged his lock with its maximum resistance, as always, and pried open the door.  A slip of paper was sitting on his top shelf, and he abandoned his history textbook on the one below, eyes curious.

_I won’t pull the fire alarm if you don’t skip math class :) -Cyrus, AKA Detention Guy_

He cracked a smile, let the words pour in.  Then frowned.  Because it was a lie.   _All_ of it.

He…he hadn't _wanted_ to lie to Cyrus, hadn’t wanted to tell him that he skipped math class when he actually didn't.  Honest. But…T.J. had been wanting to talk to Cyrus for _forever_.  Like, so long that T.J. had grown actual inches since he'd first wanted to.  So long that his chest ached when he thought about it.  And he knew if he told him the real reason, then Cyrus would look at him.  Look at him the same way Mr. Coleman did after all those failed math tests.  Disappointed.  Like he'd let the whole world down.  

Besides, he was sure Cyrus would hear about it sooner or later.  He wanted to get as much of _this_ as he could before the truth got to him.  Well, not the _actual_ truth—there were only two people who knew what really happened that day, and T.J. didn't think anyone was going to start listening to him anytime soon—but a version of it, at least.  And then Cyrus would stop talking to him for good.

He was tired of being seen as some scary basketball guy wherever he went.  Maybe he wanted to be better. Maybe Cyrus made him _want_ to be, even if he didn't know the full extent of what T.J. knew.  Just maybe.  

T.J. stuffed the note in his hoodie and shut the door.  He wandered over to Cyrus's locker, tried to push down the weird feeling surfacing up in him. 

“So,” T.J. started, causing Cyrus to whirl around in surprise at the sound of his voice, “how’d you know which one was my locker?”

Cyrus beamed, eyes bright.  Brighter than the whole hallway, even.  “The secretary,” Cyrus admitted. His smile was shy, almost embarrassed.  It did funny things to T.J.’s stomach. “How’d you know where mine was?”

T.J. shrugged.  “Secretary." _Another lie._

T.J. didn’t exactly _know_ Cyrus.  He meant, not really.  Not in the way you knew your parents or your friends, how you knew all their ticks and likes and dislikes and could make out the sound of their footsteps if they came barrelling down the hall toward you.  He just…noticed him. In a way he wondered if anyone else did. So, yeah. He _might've_ known Cyrus's locker number.  And he _might've_ known that Cyrus's best friends were Buffy Driscoll and Andi Mack, but it wasn't like it _mattered_.  T.J. was still that same idiot that got girls kicked off of basketball teams, and Cyrus was still that nice kid that had no right talking to someone like him.  And, before yesterday, Cyrus hadn't. Talked to him, he meant. Not that T.J. had exactly tried to strike up a conversation either. But he used to think about it.  Like, a lot more than he should've, probably.   

T.J. liked to watch him sometimes.  And, _God_ , not in, like, a stalker way or anything, he promised, but…one time he'd seen Cyrus in the lunchline, trying to get a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin.  He'd been wearing a collared blue shirt. Pressed khakis. His eyebrows scrunched, mouth pursed. T.J. thought about that moment a lot. How, in some ways, it had been the beginning of something that T.J. didn't understand about himself.  Why he always played moments like those over and over in his head, ones where he'd catch Cyrus in the hall or in the parking lot, memorized every line and shape and color of them. Held them all in his chest.

A hand was shaking his shoulder.  A voice. "T.J.? You okay?"

T.J. blinked, returning to reality.  The hand was Cyrus's.  The voice, too.  T.J. let it settle in his chest, then nodded after a second.  Breathed out.  "Yeah.  What were you saying?"

Cyrus smiled and drew his hand away, starting over.  “I was asking if you’d gone to math class today. You don’t want me to pull the fire alarm, do you?”

T.J. bristled at his words; they felt too light for the heaviness that was weighing his chest down.  “Yeah, I went,” he said with a sigh. Not that he ever _stopped_ going.  But he couldn't tell Cyrus that.  He hoped he never would have to.

He took in the hesitant arch of Cyrus’s brow, how he seemed to have a million questions lined up in his brain and was trying his best to hold them back.  How his good and helpful nature shone brightly in his eyes. 

He eased into a small smile.  Hoped he was giving Cyrus what he was looking for.

“How come you didn’t reply to my note yesterday?” Cyrus asked.  T.J. saw the underlying anxiety in his face, and his eyebrows jumped up.  What was that about?

“I didn’t want to risk being caught by Metcalf.  I mean, I figured he'd keep me in there forever if I gave him another reason to."  He watched the immediate relief reach Cyrus’s smile, then his eyes, and T.J.’s stomach whirled.  What was going on with him today?  Maybe that math test was doing more than just melting his brain; it seemed to be diluting his entire body, one organ at a time.

“I was worried that maybe you didn't reply because you didn't want to talk to me,” Cyrus rushed out, all in one single breath.  _Oh._ So that was why Cyrus wanted to know why he hadn't replied yesterday.

T.J.  nearly smiled.  He meant, at the fact that Cyrus cared.  As it turned out, not a lot of people did.

"Nah, of course not.  Promise."

Cyrus breathed out.  Like everything he'd been holding in had just released, like the air in a balloon.  Then he closed his locker door and studied him for a second. T.J. wanted to breathe out, too.  "So…do you have a tutor? I mean, for math." 

T.J. faltered for a second, instincts pushing at him with full force.  Alarm bells ringing in his head.  

He shut them out, set them on mute.  Maybe just this once he wanted to hear something other than the sound of him piling his walls up, brick by brick.

“Actually, my last tutor just quit,” he admitted.  It was true.  His tutor _had_ quit, only a few days ago.  Just like all the other ones before her.  “She didn’t help me. I don’t think anyone can.”  He met Cyrus’s gaze bluntly, but Cyrus was already looking back at him.  

The bell rang.  They stayed still, standing in their own carved-out piece of the world.  T.J. kind of liked it, liked that his words seemed to matter, had their own weight to them.  That maybe he mattered, too.

“Hey, learning is different for _everyone_.  Every person has their own method.  We just have to find which one works for you.”  

Cyrus offered him a smile, hesitant but full.  T.J. returned it. Let the hope in it wash over him.

“Yeah.  I guess you’re right."

A distant locker slammed, and they both finally seemed to notice the emptiness of the halls.  Panic jumped in Cyrus's eyes. T.J. could've stayed there forever.

"We better go, before Dr. Metcalf gives us even more detention," Cyrus said.  There was a teasing lilt to his voice, and T.J. huffed softly, amused.

"I'll see you in detention," T.J. said.  It was like saying goodbye without really saying it.  But it felt just as final. Just as disappointing. 

“Detention it is,” Cyrus replied, smile wide.  Then, he turned the corner, and T.J. was alone, empty hallway and all.

The tardy bell rang, and T.J. rolled his eyes.  He walked to class, not in any particular hurry, if he was honest with himself, letting Cyrus's words roll around in his head.  He hoped Cyrus meant it. That they would find a way. Together.  

He looked at the note in his pocket again.  Smiled to himself. Then T.J. slipped it into his binder for safekeeping.  Who knew when he'd want to look back on these again?


	3. Carry Us Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter, but I really enjoyed writing it! No huge interactions; mostly revelations for the two boys, especially concerning T.J.'s learning disability.
> 
> Make sure to check out the art for this fanfic [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/183036641829/the-notes-we-write-chapter-3) or @spaceottersart on Tumblr, and thank you in advance for any comments, bookmarks, hits, or kudos. They are very much appreciated by me and my collaborator Di!

****The Spoon was clattering with noise, and Cyrus swore he could hear every word he learned from their unit on onomatopoeia in English used that morning.  First the glasses were clanking, the forks, the spoons (the restaurant’s namesake, themselves). He heard a bang from the kitchen, a boom from the table over.  He didn’t know what to make of it all; it was overwhelming and calming all at once.

Normally The Spoon was far less active before school, but they’d been offering a special on baby taters, bacon, and eggs (it sounded like an odd combination, but it was _delicious_!) and everyone within the restaurant’s vicinity had flooded into the small hangout.  The three Good Hair Crew members had struggled to even acquire their _own_ booth, but they managed, nevertheless, although their waitress hadn’t returned in 20 minutes to give them their food and their laminate table still had a sticky dew settled on its surface.

“I’m so hungry,” Cyrus whined, slouching as he rested his head on his chin.  A pout settled on his lips, and Buffy rolled her eyes playfully at her best friend in response.

“I’m sure it’ll be here soon, Cyrus,” she said, then added dryly under her breath, “or in four years.”

The bell attached to the door chimed, and Andi turned toward it expectantly.  A flash of red hair peeked out from behind the glass, and she frowned instead.   _Gus_.

“Meeting Jonah?” Buffy asked with a raised eyebrow.  Cyrus and Buffy were no strangers to this routine, and they often found their friend weaving her eyes through the booths and tables to gain a good view of the door.  Just a normal part of their day.

Despite this typical occurrence, Cyrus's stomach still managed to turn uncomfortably.

Andi nodded in response, stirring her chocolate milk distractedly with her bright blue straw.  “Yeah…we’re supposed to go to the library before school starts, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”  A pout crossed her lips and Buffy shot a look to Cyrus, her eyes filling with sympathy. Cyrus gave a half hearted smile in response.

It was difficult hiding his feelings from Jonah, Cyrus could admit, and a _lot_ harder than what he had anticipated.  But what was even more difficult was hiding them from _Andi_.  He had only known Jonah since last year, but Andi had been his best friend since he was eight years old; she and Buffy knew him more than anyone else in the world.  Having a secret so _big_ hidden from her was basically a prison sentence!  Even Cyrus was holding his breath until the day he accidentally let the truth spill out of him.  It was like a dam that had too much pressure building up, push after push; it was bound to burst sooner or later.

Buffy sent an understanding smile his way, and Cyrus gave a grateful shrug back.  

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Cyrus offered.  He hated the part of him that wished Jonah wouldn’t show up at all.  

“Yeah, I’m sure he will be,” Andi said hopefully, with a tone that didn’t quite reach her eyes.  Cyrus wanted to squeeze her hand to make her feel better, but Buffy changed the subject before he could, so he settled for a sympathetic smile instead.

“So, Cyrus,” she said, casting him a look.  He perked up at the mention of his name. “How was detention the other day?”

His mind automatically flashed to T.J., and he beamed.  “Better than expected!” he admitted. “I think I maybe even made a new friend.”

Over the course of the past few days, T.J. and him had been exchanging notes frequently between classes. It wasn’t even a surprise to find a note sitting on the middle shelf of his locker anymore (although it gave him an excited thrill nevertheless).  

Buffy smirked knowingly, and her ‘I told you so’ went unsaid (although the haughtiness of it seemed to hang in the air anyway).  “Who is it?” she asked instead.

“You don’t know him,” he explained.  Cyrus wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal about his newfound friend.  Were they even friends, anyway? Or just acquaintances? Detention buddies?  People-that-exchanged-notes-everyday? (Was that even a relationship status? Could he say that was what he and T.J. were on his Facepage profile?) After all, T.J. _was_ the captain of the basketball team, and Cyrus was, well… _Cyrus._

The girls exchanged a confused glance, but merely shrugged at Cyrus’s vague answer.

“What’s he like?” Andi asked, her interest piqued as she took a sip of her drink.

Cyrus’s face lit up like a lightbulb.  “He’s sweet. Just misunderstood, I think,” he said, a soft smile crossing his face.  He really did think T.J. was misunderstood. And Cyrus didn’t think he’d even scratched the surface on who T.J. really was.   _Yet_.  At least, he _hoped_ it was a yet.

He supposed he had a good chance.  They had at least five more days of detention left together, including tomorrow.  He just hoped T.J. didn’t change his mind about talking to him by the end of the month.

“Ooh,” Andi said suggestively.  “Sounds like someone has a crush,” she said with a knowing smile.

_Only on your boyfriend._

“It’s _not_ like that,” Cyrus protested, but Andi was already up from their booth, tossing a crumpled napkin that had been curled in her palm onto the table.  

“I’m going to go check on our food,” she announced, giving Cyrus one last teasing smile.  She smoothed down her overalls and sauntered up to the cook’s counter, flashing the waitress pouring coffee behind it a polite smile.  As soon as she left, the tight coils of wire that seemed to be strung through Cyrus’s spine vertebrae by vertebrae went slack, and he sighed in relief.

Buffy seemed to notice it, too, and she captured his hands from across the table.  “Are you okay?” she asked, a concerned glimmer flashing in her eyes. Buffy had known about his crush on Jonah ever since that fateful night in seventh grade at the Space Otters’ party, and she had made it her responsibility to check up on him every time there was a _Jonah Beck_ filled conversation (and there were a _lot_ , although Cyrus _was_ responsible for initiating quite a few of them).  A year had passed since then, and Buffy had never stopped making sure he was okay.  A part of him hated talking about it, hated the way talking about _him_ made his stomach crawl and his face burn, hated the jealousy that swelled in his chest at the mention of Jonah and Andi dating.  But he always found himself spilling his feelings to her anyway. Internalizing a lot of sadness made Cyrus feel like he was about to explode.

“I’m okay,” he tried, and she gave him an incredulous look, raising her brow as if to say, ‘I don’t believe you’ _._ Cyrus relented.  “Okay, maybe I’m _not_ okay, but I’m happy for Andi.  I am.” He _was_ happy for Andi.  Really. But, sometimes, in the dark corners of his mind, he wasn’t as happy as he _should be_ for his best friend.  When it came to Jonah Beck, Cyrus felt like he was doing a lot of things he shouldn’t be, and the main one was harboring feelings for him at all.

“I’m really sorry, Cyrus,” she said, and he knew she meant it because she never used those words.  Not even when they were younger and she’d hit him with her plastic shovel in the sandbox. (He still couldn’t visit a sandbox without feeling a twinge of fear and a stinging sensation in his arm to this day.)

He sighed, and a frown threatened to pull down the corners of his lips.  He suppressed it and squeezed Buffy’s hands. “I’ll be okay, Buffy. Thanks, though.  I appreciate it.”

She took her hands back and flashed her familiar smirk.  “Of course, Cy-Guy,” she said, mocking Jonah.

A laugh bubbled in his throat and escaped his lips, and he forced it into a flat smile when Andi reappeared with their food.

“What are we laughing about?” she asked, amused.  She passed them each their own respective plates.

Cyrus scrambled for his fork.  “N-nothing!” he stammered. He inwardly cringed at how odd his voice sounded, too panicked to be innocent, and he rolled a baby tater between his teeth in order to distract his mouth.

Buffy shook her head too forcefully to be considered natural, and Cyrus ducked his head down at his cup.  He wished he could dive into it and disappear from this conversation.

“Oh, nothing!” she added on a beat too late, her voice dripping with over enthusiasm.  Even she seemed to realize how her words sounded artificial, over rehearsed, and she shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth.  

Andi gave them both a suspicious glance, but turned her attention toward her phone when it let out a low beep.  “Oh, Jonah’s outside!” she said, her voice lighting up in excitement. Cyrus felt that familiar envious knot form in his stomach once again as Andi waved her boyfriend over.  The bell chimed from the door as the Frisbee player entered through the entrance, but even the sharp ring of it sounded dull and melancholy to Cyrus.

“Ready to go?” Jonah asked Andi, a hand resting on his backpack strap.  Cyrus offered Andi an encouraging smile (not that she really needed it, but Cyrus wanted to give her one anyway), and she beamed as she collected her belongings.

“Yep!” she said, standing beside him.  They gazed at each other momentarily, and Cyrus hated that they were so adorable together; it just made the frenzy is his stomach go even more wild, and it turned his brain into a confused mush.

Andi turned away from Jonah and flashed her friends a smile.  “I’ll see you guys at school,” she farewelled, slinging her backpack across her shoulder. She tossed a few crumpled bills onto their booth table, and with a whirl and a chime from the bell on the door, she was gone.  

Cyrus set down his own fork, suddenly with a loss of appetite.  His stomach felt like an empty pit now. “I think I might go, too.”

He started to get up from the booth and Buffy surprised him by wrapping both arms around his neck. “You’ll be okay,” she whispered firmly in his ear.  She pulled back and offered him a soft beam. “I promise.”

Cyrus gave her a tight smile.  He might just hold her to that.

* * *

 T.J. walked through the halls with a hint of a smile pulling at his face, the people around him a blur, and for once he didn’t feel like he had to shove his peers out of the way to get to his locker.  That was sort of Cyrus’s fault, he guessed.

He didn’t know why talking to Cyrus made him feel lighter, like some of that anger bouncing around inside had just suddenly vanished into thin air, but he liked how the weight on his shoulders didn’t weigh so heavily.  So he guessed he couldn’t really complain. Not that he _would_ complain.  He liked spending time with Cyrus.  

A voice in the back of his mind wondered if they’d ever hang out outside of detention, or at _least_ outside of this school building, but T.J. tried to ignore it.

He punched in his locker combination and prepared himself for math class ( _God,_ he could already _hear_ Mr. Coleman’s speech about his test grade), and just as he felt his smile slipping away, he found a note from Cyrus resting on his textbook.

T.J. closed his locker with a soft click and looked at the note in his hand.  

_Ready for detention tomorrow?  I wonder if Dr. Metcalf is going to ask us survey questions on how our detention experience has been so far. -Cyrus :)_

He snorted to himself.  Honestly, after some of the stunts and experiments Dr. Metcalf had pulled on the student body over the past two years, T.J. wouldn’t find a survey too hard to believe.  

T.J. took a blue Post-It note from his backpack and hurriedly scrawled on its surface in his loose handwriting.  

_Wouldn’t be surprised.  And I can’t wait. -T.J._

T.J. smiled out of the corner of his mouth.  It was true; he couldn’t wait. He never thought he’d look forward to detention so much in his life.

On his way to math class, he made sure to stop by Cyrus’s locker to drop off his note, but he halted when he noticed a brown-haired boy a little shorter than him than him swaying in front of it.

_Jonah Beck._

T.J. knew _of_ him; well, they’d never really talked since they were in Little League together (not that Jonah probably even remembered that).  But he did know that Jonah was a really good friend of Cyrus’s, if not one of his best friends. T.J. had seen all of them at The Spoon a billion times to know that.  And at the Red Rooster, occasionally. A lot of the school went to the weekly performances, and sometimes Jonah sang.  He was pretty good, from what T.J. remembered.

None of this explained why there was something flaming in his chest, like his organs were singed and burned.

T.J. walked up to Cyrus’s locker and eyed Jonah cautiously.  The Frisbee player shifted impatiently from foot to foot, like he was waiting on someone who never showed, and T.J. looked at him expectantly.  Jonah met his blunt gaze with a look of surprise and confusion crossing his face, and T.J. refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Oh, are you waiting for Cyrus, too?” Jonah asked, confused.  T.J. slid his Post-It note into Cyrus’s locker, and he shook his head at the shorter boy.

“Nope.  Just dropping something off,” he said.  He felt the wall of tension inflating between them, but his feet refused to move from the ground.  For whatever reason, the fact that Jonah was waiting for Cyrus made an uneasy feeling swell into the pit of his stomach.  T.J. tried to shove it away to the back of his mind, tried to suppress the funny feeling swirling around in his chest, but it rose up steadily in his throat anyway.

Jonah’s eyes darted everywhere, refusing to meet T.J.’s bored (and somehow intimidating) gaze, and when the warning bell for class finally rang, he looked so thankful for it that T.J. thought that the Frisbee player might run all the way to his class period without stopping.

“I guess I’ll have to catch him later,” Jonah said, a wave of relief catching his voice.  T.J. nodded curtly in response.

He didn’t leave Cyrus’s locker until Jonah was completely out of the hallway.

When the bell rang a second time, T.J. turned toward his math class, and that uncomfortable feeling swept through him again.   _What is wrong with me?_ he thought as he propelled himself through the hallway.  T.J. crudely bumped a few shoulders and nudged a few ribs, but his mind was too busy whirring for him to notice.  

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ his mind chastised, the familiar mantra running through his head.  God, he was being so weird lately.

He jerked open the door of the math classroom, and when Mr. Coleman shot him a look for being tardy, T.J. just huffed into his seat in the back and droned him out.

_This day can’t go by any slower._

* * *

After a whirlwind of numbers and scrambled equations, the bell rang dismissively, and T.J. had never been more grateful for a class to be over in his life.  

Just as he made his way to the door, Mr. Coleman called his name, and T.J. shoved down the urge to walk out and pretend he hadn’t heard him.

“Wait, T.J., I want to talk to you,” Mr. Coleman said again, flagging him down with what T.J. assumed was his test grade.  If he squinted, he could almost make out the giant red ‘F’ drawn in the top right hand corner.

T.J. swiveled on his heel and clenched his jaw, somehow channeling the small conscience he had so that he didn’t storm out of the classroom and get in _more_ trouble.  He already knew what Mr. C was going to say.  He had heard this speech so many times, it had become as worn and thin as old thread. 

“What?” T.J. spat, his shoulders hunched up tensely.  He hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh, but being defensive about this sort of thing had become like second nature to him over the years.  It was kind of sad that his first instinct was to deflect instead of open up.

That was just another thing he was bad at, he supposed.  Feelings.

“I want to talk about your most recent math test,” his teacher said.  His voice was calm and even, and T.J. kind of wanted to yell at him for being so composed.  T.J. wondered if Mr. Coleman even _knew_ how much he wanted to do better, to _be_ better, but he had grown so accustomed to not caring over the years that he didn’t even know how to.  

And, God, there they were again, _emotions_.  They sort of clashed with him, too.  Like math.

T.J. merely shrugged.  “What about it?”

Mr. Coleman sighed and took a seat on top of one of the desks.  “I still haven’t given up on you, T.J.,” and he said it with such sincerity that T.J. forced himself to turn away.  “I think I can find you a tutor. One that’ll help you this time.”

None of the tutors helped.  They never did.

T.J. sighed loudly out his nose, and he felt his own patience wearing thin.  “Can we talk about this later?” he said, his tone clipped. He heard how annoyed he sounded and felt a pinch of guilt go through him, but he didn’t bother softening his voice.  “I have lunch.”

Mr. Coleman’s intent gaze softened, and he relented.  “That’s fine. I’ll see you after lunch so we can talk about this more.”

T.J. faced the door and yanked it open.  “Okay.”

And then he was out the door without a second glance.

* * *

Cyrus tried to push through the sea of students in the cafeteria, weaving himself through the swell of people lined up on both sides of the lunchroom.  He desperately peered around the kids in front of them, straining to see the ornate tray of chocolate chocolate-chip muffins that taunted him everyday.

 _There’s one left!_ Cyrus thought, thrilled, but then he noticed the hoards of his peers in front of him, and he slumped in defeat instead.

_Another day, another soul-crushing disappointment._

The day had gone from bad to worse, and Cyrus felt like a darkness was looming over him, waiting to swallow him up and crumble him into dust.  All morning, he had watched Andi and Jonah hold hands and laugh in the hallway, and the never ending chant in his brain chimed, _I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay_ , over and over again, but Cyrus wasn’t sure if it ever lessened the heaviness swimming in his chest.

The image of the two seemed to be haunting his thoughts, a ghost of his jealousy lingering by his side.  It danced across his math textbook, glimmered on his history notes, flickered across his science flashcards.  His brain just wanted to keep reminding him how _lonely_ he was again and again, a broken record looping on repeat.

So, yeah, _maybe_ he was hoping his favorite sought after muffin would help cheer him up.  If only the universe would throw him a bone…

He watched Gus reach for the muffin (Cyrus guessed he was a masochist, forcing himself to watch the last one be snatched away like this), but a tall blue hoodie swiped it away before the red haired boy could.

“Hey!” Cyrus heard Gus exclaim, narrowing his eyes at the taller figure, but the thief shot him a harsh look, and Cyrus’s stomach doubled over. _T.J._

It wasn’t the _first_ time he’d seen it happen. Usually, though, it was a big band of guys from the basketball team, like some sort of chocolate chocolate-chip muffin gang.  But where had all of T.J.’s friends gone? And, more importantly, _how_ had T.J. gotten that muffin without a vengeance filled claw mark sliced into his blue basketball sweatshirt?  As far as he knew, Gus would kill for one of those; he always had the same crazed look in his eyes as Cyrus did when they put them out in the cafeteria.

T.J. propelled through the crowd defiantly, and Cyrus frowned when he saw the annoyance pulling at the basketball player’s face, his normal irritation settled deep within the grooves and curves of his face.  Not unusual for him, Cyrus had noticed. That expression only ever seemed to melt away when they talked, but maybe Cyrus was just reading into things too much…

He studied him closer and detected something else.  Was T.J.—dare he say it— _forlorn_?  

He watched T.J. stroll back to class carelessly, the kids in the hall parting in what looked like fear as he weaved through the crowd, and the right corner of Cyrus’s mouth twitched up.  If only their peers could see the _real_ T.J., like he could (or at least _thought_ he could).  Maybe they would see that he wasn’t such a scary basketball guy if they looked deep enough, could see the guy behind the apathetic mask merely thrumming under the surface.

Or maybe Cyrus didn’t _choose_ to see through his facade.  Maybe T.J. let him.

That note of realization made all the grime and envy crowding his mind wash away, and Cyrus—a sweep of confidence taking root of him—darted after T.J., dodging the shoulders of the students surrounding him.  He tried to call out after him in order to catch his attention, but running through the cafeteria made his voice disappear, his lungs too busy gasping for air. Seriously, no wonder he’d failed gym!

He paused by the bathroom entrance in the vacant halls, all of his peers having gone to lunch by now, and heaved, trying to catch his breath as he listened for T.J.’s footsteps. Cyrus heard a deep voice ring throughout the corridor, and then the clicking of the basketball player’s tennis shoes against the school tiles stopped.   _What's that about?_ he wondered, a cloud of confusion creeping into his mind.

Cyrus peered around the corner, being hidden by the wall of lockers residing against the concrete blocks, and he was suddenly thankful he was so invisible to everyone in the school.  He didn’t want T.J. to catch him spying—which he wasn’t! Cyrus would call it more of a… _therapy exercise_.  He was merely making sure T.J. was okay!  No eavesdropping involved!

“I just don’t understand it!” Cyrus heard a younger male voice relent exasperatedly.  Cyrus’s stomach whirled.   _T.J._ He peeked around the barrier of lockers, raising his eyebrows up in surprise when he saw the other person in the hallway.   _Is that Mr. Coleman?_ Cyrus knew T.J. had his issues with math, especially when it came to his tutor, but what did Mr. Coleman need to talk to him about?

Mr. Coleman spoke again, too soft for Cyrus to catch, and T.J. slumped his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt defensively, taking a step back from the math teacher.  “My brain just doesn’t _work_.  It’s broken.”

He felt taken aback by the basketball player’s words, a hard pang resounding deep within his chest.  Did T.J. really think about himself that way?

Suddenly, guilt pooled in his stomach for the first time during the entire conversation, and Cyrus took in a deep inhale.  _I shouldn’t be listening to this…_

His feet seemed to disagree, and they stayed glued to the floor in protest.

“I can help you, if you just keep an open mind—” Mr. Coleman offered.

“ _No_ ,” T.J. said adamantly.  “ _None_ of the other tutors worked.  They just think I’m stupid.”

Wait, T.J. had had more than one tutor?  And _none_ of them helped?  He wondered why T.J. hadn’t told him, and then the basketball player’s words flew back into his mind, practically hitting him in the face.   _He doesn’t want me to think he’s stupid,_ Cyrus thought in realization.

Cyrus wished he could just waltz up to T.J., tell him that there was nothing wrong with him, admit how much he looked up to him (metaphorically and literally, by at least a few inches).

He stayed hidden behind the lockers instead.

“You’re _not_ stupid—” Mr. Coleman protested, but T.J. interrupted him again.

“ _Yes,_ I am.  That’s why I just failed my math test, isn’t it?” he spat.

Cyrus’s eyebrows knitted together, and he almost took a step back in shock.   _Failed_?  Why hadn’t T.J. told him about that?  He could’ve helped him, or...well, he didn’t know, but he would’ve _been there_.  Even if they hadn’t known each other that long, Cyrus cared.  He cared a lot.

Mr. Coleman sighed deeply before saying, “T.J., wait—” but there was no response.  The only sound that Cyrus heard was footsteps coming toward him…

He jumped away from the locker bay and practically sprinted into the boys’ bathroom, heaving against a stall.  His heart was pounding in his chest, his ears, his head. Cyrus didn’t know what he would’ve done if he had been caught…

More importantly, he didn’t know what _T.J._ would’ve done if he had found him, either.

Cyrus inched against the concrete walls and peered around the corner of the boy’s bathroom entrance with caution, watching T.J. intently.  The basketball player didn’t see him, and he weaved a hand through his hair wildly. Cyrus had never seen him look so _defeated_.  Like he was collapsed in on himself, and his confidence had collapsed with it.  It was so different from the boy he’d seen in detention, and his heart twisted at T.J.’s dejected expression.

T.J. clenched his jaw, his muscles were hunched together tensely, and the thought of brushing a hand against his tightly drawn shoulders to relax them ran through Cyrus’s mind.

He shoved it away.

He considered jumping out behind the bathroom entrance, wondered if he should ask T.J. about what he’d just witnessed, but a tug in his stomach stopped him.  

 _I’ll wait until he’s ready to talk about it_ , Cyrus reasoned with himself.   _I can wait until then, right?_

* * *

He could not wait until then, apparently.

After school, when he was waiting for Buffy to finish track practice (or was it cross country?  He could never tell the difference), she had asked him what had him so distracted, and, to his surprise, it wasn’t Jonah Beck that had his mind feeling so full, like a bowl of cotton balls stuffed into his brain.

It was T.J.

That night, when Cyrus was going to bed, he closed his eyelids and tried to drift off to sleep.  No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, his mind refused to rest; it was like his brain was going a million miles an hour and Cyrus had no way to halt the thoughts tossing and turning through his mind.  How could he be expected to sleep when he knew T.J. was struggling with math (and more so than T.J. had originally let on)? Now that his mind had a grip on T.J.’s problem, it refused to let it go, and he felt that familiar pull in his chest.  The one that nagged at him when he wanted to help someone.

But the question was, how?

Cyrus tugged his blankets off of his body and threw them onto his wood planked floor, nearly tripping on them on his way out the door.  He paused, then winced as he tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of milk (it was his only solution when he was anxious about something!).  Just as he pulled open the refrigerator door, he stumbled upon his dad pouring over case files at the granite counter.

“What are you doing up?” Cyrus asked his father in confusion.  He cast a glance to the plate of cookies beside him. “Are you stress eating?  You know that doesn’t actually reduce stress, right?” he told him, a teasing lilt to his voice.

His dad laughed at his remark.  “Yes, I have quite a few patients with the same problem,” he said, his mirthful tone mirroring his son’s.  Cyrus smiled as he poured himself a glass of milk. “Uh, oh,” Dr. Goodman said knowingly. “You only drink milk when you’re nervous.  Is there anything you want to talk about, son?”

Cyrus set down his glass and sighed.  Curse his tells!  And curse his shrink parents for being so good at their jobs!  “Actually, yes,” he said, walking over to his father. He hesitated before sitting down on the black stool beside him, and he relented.  “Dad, do you have any patients that struggle with school?”

His dad paused in thought.  “Yes. A lot of kids your age struggle in school.  It’s pretty normal; you’re concerned more with social status and finding yourself than you were before,” he explained.  He gave Cyrus a glance before asking, “Are _you_ struggling with school, Cyrus?  Because if you are, your stepmother and I will always be more than happy to talk about it if you want—”

“No, no,” Cyrus interrupted.  “It’s not me who’s struggling.  It’s my…my friend,” he said, choosing his words carefully.  (He was still waiting for confirmation on that, as pathetic as it sounded.)

Dr. Goodman set down the thick manila file in his hand and raised his eyebrows understandingly, his eyes soft and clear of judgment.  Cyrus knew that was how he got his patients to open up so easily. He looked so trusting! It was hard _not_ to tell him everything on your mind.  Cyrus didn’t know how he had kept the fact that he liked boys away from his dad so long, let alone the rest of his parents.  “Tell me about your friend,” he said, slipping into therapist mode.

Cyrus sighed, not even knowing where to begin.  “Well, he’s struggling a lot, I think. More than he lets on to most people.”  

“How is he struggling?” his dad asked.  Cyrus was grateful that he hadn’t even commented on the fact that his friend _was_ indeed a ‘he’.  It would add on another layer of questions that Cyrus did _not_ want to get into.

“I heard him say that his brain doesn’t work, that he doesn’t understand it.  And he failed his most recent math test,” Cyrus admitted. He couldn’t help but feel like he was betraying T.J. by telling his dad about _his_ problems, spilling secrets that the basketball player hadn’t even told him about, but Cyrus waved the cloud of guilt from his mind.   _I’m doing this to help him!_ he reasoned with himself.  The thought made him feel better, if only a little bit.  “He also said that none of his tutors have helped him and that he’s been through a _lot_ of them.”

“Hm,” his father said, pursing his lips in thought.  Cyrus could practically see the puzzle pieces interlocking in his brain.  “Sounds like he could have a learning disability, kiddo,” he said, giving his son a knowing squeeze on the shoulder.

 _A learning disability._  It was like a light bulb had suddenly clicked on in his brain.  It all made sense!

“I think you’re actually right…,” Cyrus said, dumbfounded.  He scrambled from the stool beside his dad and practically ran back to his bedroom, his glass of milk forgotten.

“I’m glad I helped you,” Dr. Goodman called after him, making Cyrus halt abruptly in the threshold of the kitchen and the hallway.  “And make sure you get enough rest. A tired brain—”

“—is an unhappy brain, I know,” Cyrus finished for him.  He had heard the phrase a million times. “Don’t worry, I’ll go back to bed in a second.”  

His father smiled to himself in response and returned back to his patient files while Cyrus skipped back to his bedroom.  He knew how to help T.J.! Now he just had to prove his dad’s theory correct…

Cyrus hopped on the computer and cracked his knuckles dramatically (then winced when they popped) before typing ‘learning disabilities for math’ into the search engine _.  I hope this works..._


	4. Make Our Hearts Soar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to give Di clout on her Tumblr [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/183180531749/the-notes-we-write-chapter-4). Thank you so much for comments, kudos, bookmarks, and hits. They make our day!

* * *

_I feel like I need to come up with a better nickname for you.  Detention Guy doesn’t seem to fit all the way. -T.J._

* * *

Cyrus fidgeted with the dulled metal of his locker, impatiently shifting the pictures and magnets engulfing the inside door.  Last night’s discovery was still whirling around in his mind, like he’d unlocked a forbidden chest with a key he wasn’t supposed to use, and he didn’t know what to do.  Cyrus had been sure once he searched it up on his computer, once the word popped out from his screen like a Jack-In-The-Box.

_Dyscalculia._

Cyrus was familiar with a lot of learning disabilities, including this one.  He’d read case files of his parents’ patients that had similar problems, and he remembered his mother sitting down with him when he was younger, handing him books about psychology, books about kids, teenagers, adults and their different disorders, disabilities, and mental illnesses.  The information had always been there, lurking around in the corners and edges of his mind, but he’d never put the pieces together. At least, until _now_.  

He wondered when he should tell T.J., or if he should at all—but then realized that if he didn’t, it would find a way to burst out of him eventually.  Cyrus was a babbling brook, and his words always spilled through the cracks, squeezing their way through every imaginable boundary. There was no _way_ he could keep this secret for long.  

He shut his locker door and tried to find the familiar bounce in his step, and soon enough he was being flagged down by Jonah Beck in the hallway with wide arms and fluid gestures.

“Cyrus!” he called out, causing Cyrus to pause in the hallway.  Because of his abruptness, a girl barely dodged him on the way to her class, and she shot him a dirty look.

“I’m sorry!” he apologized, his eyebrows knitting together in worry.  She walked away with a disgruntled huff and a string of words that Cyrus wasn't allowed to use muttered under her breath, and Cyrus tried to shrug the encounter off as Jonah neared him.  “Hey, what’s up, Jonah Babona?” he asked, his heart twinging in his chest; he wasn’t used to this sort of attention from Jonah.  Lately, all his attention had been captured by Andi…

He suppressed the jealous thoughts that tended to follow that statement.  He should be happy for his best friend!

Even though he told himself that, Cyrus knew his heart wasn’t entirely in it.

Jonah held his hand up and Cyrus clasped it, thumping each other once, then twice on the back as they did that Hug-That-Only-’Bros’-Do, the one Buffy had taught him back in seventh grade.  When he pulled away, Cyrus tried to ignore the undeniable hammering in his chest. _Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum._  It was going a million beats a minute, about to leap out of his chest.

“Nothing, dude,” he said, flashing his ever dazzling smile.  Cyrus somehow refrained from melting into a puddle on the floor.  How did Jonah manage to make everyone fall over their own feet for him?  “I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the Red Rooster with me after school,” the Frisbee player explained with a smile.  “I wrote a song and I want your opinion.”

 _Jonah wrote a song?  And he wants_ my _opinion?_  Cyrus couldn’t help but feel a rush of pure, giddy excitement go through his chest.  How he kept himself from bursting into a trillion pieces of rainbow confetti, he had no clue.  “Of course, Jonah!” Cyrus exclaimed.

“Dosh!”  Jonah beamed.  

Before Jonah could turn away, something dawned on Cyrus.  “Oh, _wait_ ,” he said, his heart sinking in his chest.  “I can’t. I have detention after school on Mondays and Fridays.”

Jonah’s bright smile fell momentarily, but it returned after a beat of silence.  “What about Tuesday?” he asked, a note of hopefulness ringing in his voice.

As if Cyrus could refuse.  “Definitely!” he affirmed with a bright smile of his own.  

“Great!” Jonah added on, mirroring his expression.  Cyrus hoped his face wasn’t too flushed. “Can’t wait.”  He walked away, but Cyrus’s mind was still spinning.

 _Can’t wait_.  Cyrus’s mind flashed back to T.J.’s note from the other day, and he suddenly felt his stomach double over, a roll of reality punching his chest.   _T.J.  I need to tell him._

Cyrus smoothed out the note T.J. had already given him that morning, and he put it in the binder with the rest.   _I’ll tell him.  In detention,_ he decided.  Now he just needed to summon the nerve…

Trying to wipe the sudden trepidation from his mind, he took out his own piece of paper, scribbling back a note quickly.  T.J. wanted to come up with a new nickname for him?  He couldn’t help but smile at the gesture.

 _What’s not to love?_ he began to write back.  After staring down at the words for a few seconds, he scrubbed them out with his eraser, wearing the paper thin as a light blush crept up his neck.  It sounded too flirty.  He didn’t want T.J. to get the wrong idea!

He felt a pit form in his stomach.  Did T.J. even know he was gay?  He meant, sure, he wasn’t in the closet anymore, and he didn’t openly deny being gay to anyone who asked, but did _T.J._ know?  Was him being out common knowledge in the gossip mill of Jefferson Middle School?  And if it wasn’t, would T.J. even hang out with him if he found out?

Cyrus tried to wash away the sudden wave of anxiousness swelling in him, but it was an impossible feat.  He was pretty sure that the hemoglobin in his red blood cells carried anxiety instead of oxygen.

He wrote on top of his faded, erased words, constructing a better response for the basketball player, and then smiled to himself at his reply.  Just the right amount of self-deprecation! T.J. wouldn’t question that response at all.

Just as he closed his locker with a soft _click_ , he slung his bag back onto his shoulder.  As he began walking towards his next class, fiddling with the note pinched tightly between his thumb and forefinger, he spotted two figures materializing in his peripheral vision, and he slowed down to match their pace.

“Hey Buffy, Andi,” he greeted his best friends, flashing each of the girls a cheerful smile.  “How’s it goin’?”

“Good,” Buffy responded while Andi nodded along in agreement.  Her gaze shifted to the piece of paper clutched in his hand, and her eyes flickered back to Cyrus questioningly.  “What’s that?”

Cyrus shoved the note into the safety of his binder, waving the inquiring glimmer in her eyes away.  “Oh, you know, just a note for a teacher,” he lied, his words not sounding quite as smooth as he hoped. He felt a sting puncture his ribs as the words leaked from his mouth like a bitter poison.  

It wasn’t like Cyrus to lie to his friends like this.  It wasn’t that he was _ashamed_ of the fact that he was talking to T.J. Kippen (if anything it should be _T.J._ who was ashamed of talking to _him_ ), but, for whatever reason, he just wanted to keep it to himself before his friends could tear it apart, shred it to pieces.  They had this rule that they had to tell each other everything, but he _knew_ they didn’t follow it half the time (Andi hiding the fact that Bex was her mom, Buffy lying about talking to Marty again, and him being gay were a couple secrets they'd kept from each other, and those were just off the top of his head) so he figured it would be okay if did the same with this.  

The real problem would be trying not to slip up.  He wasn’t too confident; he wasn’t the _best_ at keeping secrets.

“So, ready for English?” Andi asked, breaking Cyrus from his thoughts.  She wrinkled her nose. “I _really_ don’t want to work on that three page essay about the history of the typewriter.”  Their English teacher had a sort of affinity for old (and boring) things from his past, and the three were constantly stumped and riddled on _why_.  Nevertheless, the Good Hair Crew put up with their teacher’s odd fascination in order to maintain their exemplary GPAs.  Besides, it had sort of become a running joke with their class.  

“Yeah,” Cyrus said distractedly, his eyes trailing locker 153.   _T.J.’s locker._ “Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced to his friends, quickly scurrying off to the side restrooms.  He watched them from behind the door, witnessing their suspicious glances at his abrupt departure.  After exchanging a confused shrug, the two girls headed to their shared English class, and Cyrus wiped invisible beads of sweat from his brow as they left his line of sight.  

 _This is going to be a_ lot _harder than I thought._

* * *

  _I don’t mind it!  What else could you even call me?  ‘Unathletic Guy’? `‘Boy-That-Runs-Into-Glass-Doors’?_ _-Cyrus, AKA Is Yet To Be Determined_

* * *

Once the last bell of the day rang dismissively, T.J. made his way to the detention room, pivoting his body away from the rigid shoulders of students flooding from their respective classrooms to go home for the day.  T.J.’s eyes followed all of the room numbers attached with their corresponding doors, struggling to remember which number was the detention room. He hated himself for not remembering a number so simple, but numbers themselves just didn’t seem to _stick._ They were always fleeting, a small flicker of a match going off in his brain but never igniting long enough to make an impression on the surrounding darkness.

A voice in the back of his mind asked him why he could remember Cyrus’s locker number so well without ever purposely committing it to memory, but T.J. knew it was because he’d spent so much time looking at it that it stuck out to him like red in a sea of greys and blacks and whites.  

He tried to push the voice away anyway.

T.J. stumbled upon a familiar looking classroom.  He peeked inside, the cold, deafening atmosphere itself already giving away what the room’s purpose was, and he huffed out a sigh.   _Yes,_ this was the classroom.  T.J. was sure of it.

His eyes flitted to the room number etched into a plaque beside the door, and he tried to commit it to memory.

 _34, 34, 34,_ he repeated over and over in his head, like a mantra.   _It’s the same as your basketball number,_ T.J. reminded himself.   _You can remember that._

All of last year he’d thought his jersey was 43 up until his first game, when his coach had announced each of their jersey numbers and names aloud at the annual pep rally held beforehand.  He’d assumed ever since then that all the numbers he saw were jumbled around. T.J. wasn’t sure if that was normal, but he was never gonna admit it. Not in a million years.

T.J. plopped down into the same seat he’d sat in on Monday and hooked the straps of his backpack onto the head of his desk chair, drawing a a black pen and a sheet of notes he and Cyrus had been exchanging over the past few days from his bag; he already knew how he was going to spend the hour of detention.   

He’d been giving notes to Cyrus all week, notes about detention or things that he had deemed so mindless that he hadn’t bothered to say them out loud.  But Cyrus made those random thoughts feel important. Like they meant something. (As lame as that sounded.)

Even on Tuesday, Cyrus had helped him feel better about his whole math thing…then he remembered his chat with Mr. Coleman yesterday, and a sour feeling seeped into his chest.  Maybe he should tell Cyrus about that, too.  Maybe.

He looked back down at the notes and smiled at the words and doodles crowding the page, making a mental note to put it somewhere safe so he didn’t lose it later.

The conversation they’d had yesterday stuck out in particular, and T.J. gave it a once over, his mouth curved upward.

Cyrus had written first in blue pen, saying, _How are you so good at sports?  Today I sprained my ankle just by walking out of the locker room in dance class!_

T.J. wrote back, _I’m guessing you’re accident prone.  Is that why you were wearing that brace?_

_You saw that?  Also, yes! I asked the nurse if I could have a wheelchair but she said no :( Besides, Buffy refused to wheel me to class anyway._

_I would’ve wheeled you.  I got your back._

_I’ll keep that in mind for when I inevitably break both of my legs!_

Then Cyrus had drawn a bunch of random stars (he’d assumed that Cyrus had doodled them in class; he got kind of restless and fidgety when he was worried about an upcoming assignment, T.J. had noticed), so T.J. had drawn a moon to go with it.  And he scribbled some lines next to one of his stars to make it a shooting star, saying, _make a wish._

He wondered if Cyrus did.  Make a wish, he meant.

The thought made him beam.  Just a little bit.

Soon enough, a pair of footsteps joined him and broke him from his thoughts, and T.J.’s eyes flitted up in curiosity.  A wave of something he didn’t recognize went through him as he was met by Cyrus, who had look of surprise tweaking his eyebrows together.

“You’re here early,” the boy remarked, perching himself onto his seat with a smile stretching across his face.  

“Even before you,” T.J. commented with a snort, facing Cyrus in his seat.  If he moved forward just a few inches, their knees would knock together.

Cyrus shook his head.  “I wait a few minutes in seventh period after the bell rings so I don’t get trampled on in the hallway.”  T.J. shot him an amused look. “It’s so crowded at the end of the day! Once I lost a _shoe_!” he protested.  T.J. laughed.

“It’s not that bad,” T.J. said, giving him a smile.  Cyrus gave him an incredulous glance.  “Next time we have detention, I’ll walk with you,” T.J. promised.  He leaned forward, bumping against Cyrus’s knee, and tried to ignore the fluttering in his chest.

“Really?” he asked, excited, but then something sad flickered in his eyes and he pulled himself back, tightly clasping his fingers together.  Something seemed to be on Cyrus’s mind, like a string pulling at the back of his head, and the boy leaned forward intently, as if he were about to say something.  T.J. raised his eyebrows expectantly, but the two were interrupted before Cyrus actually spoke.

"You're both here," he remarked, causing the two boys to jerk their heads up in startlement.  He pounded across the room, storming to his desk.  T.J. didn’t think he was storming because he was mad; he was pretty sure it was just their principal’s normal walking stance, like he had concrete slates in his shoes, making every footstep sound like an angry march.  “On time today, are we, T.J.?” the principal asked sarcastically, feigning surprise.    

T.J.’s brow arched up in annoyance as sarcastic words bubbled up in the back of his throat, yearning to pass his lips.  Dr. Metcalf _hardly_ scared him, not by any means, and he wasn’t afraid to let him know that.  However, he noticed the way Cyrus had shrunk down into his seat, as if he were trying to compact himself into as small of a particle as possible, and decided not to provoke their principal any further.  Just for Cyrus’s sake.

“Yep, got here early,” he told the principal, letting out an annoyed sigh.  He suppressed the grimace threatening to cross his face.

“Keep it up,” the principal said, his eyebrows raised pointedly at him.  It was probably the most encouraging thing he had ever said to T.J. in the two years the basketball player had known him.  Whatever.

“Anyway, you know the drill,” Dr. Metcalf started, setting down a thick stack of papers on the desk in front of him.  “No talking, no texting, no moving around.” He didn’t even glance at the clock this time before muttering, “The hour starts now.”

A beat of silence passed before T.J.’s pen was scratching his paper idly, replying to Cyrus’s note from before.

 _Also, about what you said earlier, good nickname options.  I’ll keep those in mind,_ he wrote, snorting to himself.  Boy-That-Runs-Into-Glass-Doors? Cyrus was funny, intentionally or not.  And not in a laughing _at_ him kind of way (the way that T.J.’s old friends, like Reed, used to do, not that he liked to think too much about that).  He was just…great. T.J. didn’t know how else to put it.

He passed the note to Cyrus, clicking his pen in boredom as he waited impatiently, and the boy tossed back their shared paper within seconds after scribbling back his reply.

_Just wait.  I’m sure it’ll come to you :)_

A wave of warmth surged in his chest at his words.  Yeah.  Cyrus was great.

Before he could even form a coherent sentence to reply with, a loud blaring erupted from Dr. Metcalf’s phone, and he quickly unhinged the front. (Who still had a flip phone these days?)

“Hello, this is Dr. Metcalf,” the principal answered.  T.J. rolled his eyes at the authority ringing in his voice while Dr. Metcalf kept a steady gaze on them as a voice rattled off words into his ear, almost as if he were suspicious that they’d do something while his attention was captured.  He was so tightly wound, T.J. figured that he’d give Cyrus and him 5 extra days of detention just for _breathing_ too loudly.

“Emergency in the chemistry lab?” he repeated incredulously.  

T.J.’s eyebrows twitched in curiosity, and he and Cyrus exchanged a glance at the words.  He could practically hear Cyrus’s thoughts, his mind churning across from him: _What kind of emergency?_

T.J. hoped something exploded.  He was definitely counting on skipping out for the rest of the hour if Dr. Metcalf left.

He wondered if Cyrus would come with him…

Dr. Metcalf hurriedly collected his suit jacket and briefcase as he spoke frantically into the phone, his cell being trapped in the nook between his tilted head and shoulder.  “I’ll be there right away,” he assured in a clipped tone, pulling his blazer on as he did so.

He let the cell drop into his hand and snapped it shut, giving the two boys an incisive look as he halted in the threshold of the detention room door.  “The science club has had a chemical accident that I need to attend to. I expect _both_ of you to be here when I get back,” Dr. Metcalf warned them, his tone cutting and his gaze pointed.  As always.

T.J. felt an amused smirk tugging at his lips, but he suppressed it until his principal was far out of his line of sight.  Once Dr. Metcalf had briskly walked all the way to the science classroom (which was way on the other side of the building), T.J. stood up and collected his belongings.  

“You skipping with me?” he asked, arching a questioning brow.  He stuffed their sheet of notes into his backpack as he slung one of his backpack straps onto his shoulder.

Cyrus’s eyes widened like saucers.  “ _Skip_?  What if Dr. Metcalf catches us, or—”

“Relax,” T.J. said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  The resistance in Cyrus’s eyes seemed to melt away. “Trust me.”

They kept a gaze for a moment, and something like waves swelled in T.J.’s stomach, rising to his chest and throat as Cyrus cracked a smile, standing up beside him.

“Dancing with danger _is_ on my bucket list,” he admitted, and T.J. smirked back, beginning to walk toward the exit.  “Where are we going?”

T.J. paused in the threshold of the doorway, twisting around to flash Cyrus a reassuring smile.  “Don’t worry. I have a secret hiding spot.”

* * *

“You come to the swings, too?” Cyrus asked as soon as they reached the playground.  They’d been walking for fifteen minutes, and although Cyrus had to stop twice to catch his breath, they had finally made it in record time.

Well, as record as it could be when you had an allergic-to-sports kid tagging along.  At least that was what Cyrus had called himself the other day when he had been complaining about dance class.

T.J. found it all more endearing than anything.

“Yeah,” T.J. said, feeling the steel chains dig into his palms as he gripped them.  He hopped onto the blue seat, his feet sinking into the mulch below. “I do.”

“So do I,” Cyrus said, faintly running a hand against the chains.  He perched himself onto the seat adjacent to T.J. “I come here whenever I’m feeling bad about myself.”

T.J.’s mind automatically flashed to yesterday, when Mr. Coleman and him were conversing tersely in that empty hallway during lunch, and he clenched his jaw.  “Yeah, I can see why you do that,” he replied, almost curtly.

“Is that why you come here?” Cyrus asked.

T.J. kicked against the mulch and his eyes bored into the ground, not quite sure what he’d do if he met Cyrus’s gaze.  “I dunno. I guess. I never thought that swinging could actually help.” He started coming here to _escape_ , because he knew his friends wouldn’t be caught dead at a playground.  Sometimes it was nice to get away from them. To be alone.

Now he didn’t have to worry about them at all.  It wasn’t like they were his friends now, anyway…

“Try it,” Cyrus suggested, halting the train of thought in T.J.’s mind.  T.J. gave a careless shrug, and he began pushing off the ground, listening to Cyrus’s advice.  

T.J. was up in the air now, weaving his body back and forth as he continued to garner speed, and the knot he carried in his chest seemed to unfurl.  Like he had left all his problems on the ground, with the mulch and the grass and the trees, and now they were a million miles away from his spot in the sky.  He could touch the clouds if he wanted. He felt _free._

T.J. laughed (which he felt like he hadn’t done in years) and he beamed over at Cyrus, who was just twisting his body awkwardly, hardly moving as he did so.  “Come on, get up here!”

He glanced down at the boy.  “This is as up as I go,” Cyrus admitted lamely.  

T.J. smiled again, and at the peak point of his pendulum, he leaped up into the air, his feet burrowing into the mulch below him.  He ran so fast over to Cyrus that mulch was flying in the air, and he appeared behind him, giving him a gentle, yet unexpected, push.  Cyrus yelped in surprise, and T.J. grinned, feeling so carefree that he couldn’t care less about the obstacles that were constantly being thrown at him.

“T.J.!” Cyrus squealed in protest.  “Woahhh!”

T.J. braced the palms of his hands against the brunt of Cyrus’s shoulder blades, pushing him so far up that the chains on the swings rattled.  Had he shoved him with a little more force, making Cyrus go _just_ a bit higher, T.J. was sure that he would launch Cyrus into outer space, with the moon and stars.  Just like the ones on their notes.

As he kept on propelling Cyrus into the air, he wondered if the exhilaration from swinging so high and so fast was contagious because he found his own heart soaring in his chest.  Whether it was from the pure, raw excitement coursing through his veins or just the way Cyrus made him feel, he wasn’t sure. With Cyrus, he always felt more than this stupid, scary jock that he had molded himself to over the years.  He felt like he could just be himself without any of the consequences.

Like he could do anything.

With one final push, T.J. ducked underneath him, shouting, “Underdog!” as he dove underneath the swing.

Cyrus swung back, his knuckles white as he looked ready to lurch forward in his seat.  He whooped, exclaiming, “That was exhilarating!” He kept coming back and forth, not even bothering to dig and drag his feet into the mulch to slow himself down, and T.J. smiled.  

“I’m glad,” he said, tilting his head to the side as he spoke.  The giddy feeling was starting to fade, but his stomach didn’t stop dancing a jig of its own, causing something to well up in his chest.   Then he realized he was staring at Cyrus, and he jerked his head away.  

It wasn’t the first time T.J. had caught himself doing it, either.  That was what scared him the most.

T.J. breathed in deeply, trying to swallow the weird lump in his throat.  “Thanks for reminding me about swinging,” T.J. said.  Even though _he_ was the one who had brought Cyrus here, he doubted that he would’ve felt this way without him.  Free.  “It helped." He didn’t know he was going to say this, hadn’t anticipated revealing what had happened with Mr. Coleman just yet, but the words were falling out of his mouth before he could stop himself.  “ I want to tell you what happened yesterday, with Mr. Coleman—”

“Actually, I have to tell you something, too,” Cyrus confessed suddenly, his hands curling tightly around the steel chains.  He looked serious.  And nervous, too. Well, Cyrus _always_ looked nervous, like he was waiting for someone to shoot out and scare him from behind, but this anxiety was lined with something else.  Fear. Guilt.  T.J. wasn’t sure, and suddenly his chest felt a lot heavier than it did a few seconds ago, like a concrete block was resting on his ribcage.  The lump in his throat tightened. “I think I may know why you struggle in math.”

T.J. suddenly felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.  No, Cyrus couldn’t— _no_.  

His eyes darted around the playground wildly to make no one had heard. No one seemed to be close enough within their vicinity to catch their words, but people _were_ staring at them.  Cyrus seemed to notice, too.

“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked nervously.

T.J. nodded wordlessly, his mind whirling, and he followed Cyrus on the sidewalk, the rough surface working against the soles of their shoes.  He knew the playground was teetering with life, with gravel crunching, swings creaking, people talking, but his ears didn’t process all the noise and chatter.  It was like he’d suddenly gone deaf, that everything around him was moving too fast and his brain was too overwhelmed to catch it all. Pure white noise.

Cyrus led him over to a bench near the swings, and at first it was just the two of them staring at each other, Cyrus biting his lip and T.J. waiting for him to _finally_ tell him what everyone else really thought.  That he was stupid.

The rational part of his brain tried to reason with him, tried to tell him that Cyrus was different, that he wouldn’t say that, but a swell of frustration rose up in his chest in disbelief.  

“T.J...,” Cyrus spoke softly, and T.J. hated the way it made his anger pause in its tracks.  He swore his heart stopped. “I overheard you and Mr. Coleman talking yesterday.”

Something flared in his chest.  “You overheard?” It was on the verge of accusatory, and Cyrus gave a small nod.  

“I think you might have dyscalculia.”

And then came the confusion.  “Dyscalculia?” T.J. said, moving his mouth around the unusual word.  He felt inadequate for not knowing what it meant, but the boy across from him didn’t seem to mind.

Cyrus nodded, and he inched closer to him on the bench.  T.J. wondered when his heart would start beating again. “It’s a learning disability,” he explained.  “It’s _completely_ normal to have—”

T.J. missed the rest of his sentence as he felt that familiar surge of anger wash over him, felt it pool in the back of his eyelids, blinding him until he couldn’t see straight.  “ _No_ ,” he said adamantly.  His head was pounding. “I don’t—”

“ _T.J._ ,” Cyrus said understandingly, and T.J. forced himself to meet his gaze.  He didn’t recognize the sudden emotion that rushed to his chest, but it made his face burn.  “I’m not saying you do or don’t, but you _could_ get tested, or at least tell Mr. Coleman.  Just so you’d know for sure.”

A mother called for her child nearby, breaking them from their isolated bubble of conversation, and Cyrus placed a hand on T.J.’s forearm, his eyes questioning.  T.J. felt like he was on fire, and that the whole playground was burning with him, too.

“ _T.J_.,” Cyrus said again, his voice understanding.  Why did he keep saying his name like that?   _T.J._ “It’s _okay_.  You’re—”

He drowned him out.   _T.J., T.J., T.J._

T.J. never knew he could like the sound of his name so much.

“Are you okay?” Cyrus asked, bringing him back to reality.  Then T.J. remembered where he was and what was _happening_ , and he pulled back because everything felt too much, too fast.  

“I gotta go,” he said, his voice sharper and more urgent than he had intended.   He propelled himself through the mulch, through the grass, through the trees, and he didn’t stop until he was out of the park, away from Cyrus, away from his problems, away from everything.  T.J. ignored the urge of his to look back behind him as the sound of Cyrus saying his name still rang in his ears.

_T.J., T.J., T.J._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments, I’m desperate and I need validation to live 🥺


	5. Let Us Forgive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure to check out my friend Di's artwork for this chapter [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/183343603719/the-notes-we-write-chapter-5). Thank you so much for comments, kudos, bookmarks, and hits. We got a lot last chapter, and they really encourage us to keep working on the fic. Tysm! Have fun reading this 6K words of hell

****His alarm clock beeped once, then twice, and T.J. groaned into his pillow, already dreading the day to come.

It had been a _long_ weekend.  (Sort of the understatement of the century.)

For a few minutes, T.J. just stared up at his ceiling, trying to remember how to make his limbs move.  And then coherent thoughts started to seep in, like a valve in his mind screwed open, and everything suddenly felt too _full_.  His head, his chest.  His anger.

 _Toxic T.J. strikes again_ , T.J. thought, rolling his eyes at himself.  He just _always_ had to ruin the good things in his life.  Had to push Cyrus away the second he was going to let him in.

God, _why_ did he storm away from him?  He had been so happy one minute, unbelievably  _genuinely_ happy, and then his entire world felt like it was crumbling around him, disintegrating into ash at his feet.  And Cyrus was there, his hand resting on his arm, his blunt, understanding gaze keeping him on that stupid bench.  

And then his vision was fumbling out of focus, and T.J. ran, away from the park, away from Cyrus.  Away from confronting the weight that sat so heavily on his shoulders. Just like he always did. He deflected and dodged bullets as they came, always anticipating the next blow.

The memory of when he got back from the swings that day flashed in his mind, and a tired feeling seeped into his body, like a block of lead soaking his bones.  It had taken everything in him to not punch a wall, or shatter his mom’s vase, or do _something_ to get all the feelings welled up inside of him out.  

Sometimes T.J. just wanted to scream a Queen song and never stop.  He never really thought of himself as the type to sing his feelings out (that was more of Jonah Beck’s thing; he’d seen him perform at the Red Rooster a few times, but then he remembered Cyrus sitting in the crowd, listening to him intently, and his stomach turned, so he shoved the image out of his brain), but it seemed more appetizing than _talking_ about them.  T.J. wasn’t good with words, and he couldn’t ever manipulate them into coming out right when it came to talking about his feelings.  Which was probably just another reason why he lashed out. He didn’t _have_ to think about what he was going to say; the words just bubbled out of him like a spring, spilled from his lips without him having to even blink an eye.

T.J. was trying to work on that, though.  He didn’t know if he was doing too good of a job.  

After he trudged back from the park, he started shooting hoops outside his house in an attempt to subdue his anger and confusion (basketball season had just ended, but he still liked to play with the beat-up goal in his yard year round), trying not to let his mind wander too far beyond his driveway.  But it did. It _always_ did, annoyingly enough.

 _What if Cyrus is right_? he asked himself.  The guilt was beginning to gnaw on him now.   _What if I have dysc-whatever it’s pronounced?_

Too many ‘what if’s began plaguing his mind, and T.J. let the ball drop from his grip, jogging up the stairs to his bedroom with questions pouring into his head until he couldn’t think straight.

He slammed the door behind him—no one was home, but that wouldn’t have stopped him anyway—and T.J. punched in words on his keyboard, typed in the _disability_ that Cyrus had told him about.  He was pretty sure he spelled it wrong in the search engine, but the web page figured it out for him.

The first line he came across was _Dyscalculia Symptoms_.  He skimmed through the list.

And skimmed through it again.  And again. And again.

T.J. didn’t stop looking through it until his eyes grew bleary, until he could read the words forwards and backwards, could recite it like a sonnet.

Because it described _exactly_ what he struggled with everyday.  

And then a wall of guilt and self-directed anger slammed into him all at once, because Cyrus was _right_ , right about everything, right about him.  Of course he was.

And all weekend T.J. had been dreading this exact moment, the one where he’d have to get out of bed and face the school and—more importantly—face Cyrus.  What would he even say? ‘You were right’? ‘I should’ve listened to you’?

They all sounded so _stupid_.  And not good enough.  

He wasn’t sure if anything he did _was_ good enough, but Cyrus made him feel like he was.  Or, at least, could be, if he wanted to.  But none of that mattered if Cyrus wouldn’t even talk to him anymore.

T.J. sat down at his desk, his hair mussed and his clothes rumpled, and he took a Post-It note from his backpack, his mind blanking and whirling all at once.

He hated having to sit down and think like this.  Dwelling on what was swimming in his mind gave his feelings too much leeway.  They always ended up crowding every corner of his mind, spilling over the edges, taking up too much space.  Sometimes his head was so full of words and just other things he couldn’t identify that he thought he’d drown in them.

T.J. sighed, then scribbled down a quick apology, throwing himself into the shower and hoping his mind went numb.  He wanted to say a lot more to Cyrus than just an apology, a lot he didn’t even know how to explain, but now that the words were floating around in his brain, he wished that he just couldn’t feel at all.  

* * *

Cyrus’s heart hammered against his chest, his ribs tilting with each rapid beat.  He drummed his fingers in no particular rhythm (the only beat Cyrus knew by heart was _anxious)_ against the arms of the stiff chairs in the school office, nervously awaiting his prison sentence.  Ever since Dr. Metcalf’s secretary had called T.J. and him over the PA system in her wobbly voice, he had been completely stricken with pure fear.  Was he in trouble for skipping the rest of detention with T.J. on Friday? What if he received more detention days because of it?

Then again, Cyrus didn’t think he’d mind it if he had to spend a few extra days in detention, as long as he got to do it with T.J.  Not that he thought T.J. wanted to talk to him ever again…

He hadn’t heard from the basketball player since Friday (which _was_ kind of expected, especially since they hadn’t exchanged numbers, but the radio silence still made his stomach twist and turn uneasily anyway).  Was T.J. never going to talk to him again? He was just trying to help, but what if T.J. didn’t _want_ his help?

There he went, meddling in everyone else’s affairs and tangling their lives up again.  When would he learn?

Cyrus sighed to himself as the guilt plagued his mind again, and not for the first time that morning.  The thing was, he was afraid he’d _never_ learn.  He always managed to talk himself into something he couldn’t find his way out of.  

His tapping against the chair became more anxious, too staccato and not at all syncopated, and his heart plummeted to his stomach. What if T.J. wasn’t going to even come to the principal’s office because he was there?  Or what if he _did_ come, and he didn’t spare him a single glance?  Or what if—

The door clicked open, and what felt like a dozen waves rolled over in Cyrus’s stomach.   _Oh.  T.J._

The basketball player glanced around, and his eyes didn’t stop weaving through the room until his gaze landed directly on Cyrus.  Cyrus was pretty sure his heart stopped.

“Hey,” T.J. said, a note of something Cyrus didn’t recognize ringing in his voice.  Cyrus's stomach turned as T.J. sat down, one of T.J.'s hands hiding behind his back. Cyrus would’ve been suspicious if he hadn’t felt so overwhelmed with worry.  

“About Friday…,” T.J. huffed out a sigh frustratedly, and Cyrus wasn’t sure if it was directed at T.J. or himself, “I wrote out an apology, but I was called in here before I could put it in your locker.”  

He drew a crinkled paper from his jeans with his free hand and thrust the folded Post-It note to Cyrus.  Cyrus felt a wave of shock bloom in his chest. _T.J._ was apologizing to _him_?  What did T.J. need to apologize for?

Cyrus unfolded the note, glancing up at T.J. incredulously with his eyebrows raised, and trailed the line of words scribbled in T.J.’s loose handwriting.

_I shouldn't have stormed off.  Not my best moment. -T.J._

A swell of relief so strong washed over Cyrus that he couldn’t help but crack a smile.  “Don’t most apologies have the words, ‘I’m sorry’ in them?” he teased good-naturedly, but inside his stomach was whirling.  Maybe T.J. wanted to be friends just as much as he did. The thought made him smile.

T.J. snorted and indulged him.  “ _Fine_ ,” he drawled, lightly rolling his eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

Then he pulled the hand from behind his back and handed Cyrus a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, a stack of napkins resting underneath the wrapper to catch the crumbs.  Cyrus glanced up at him in shock, and a surprised—yet delighted—smile curved his mouth. ~~~~

“This was my backup in case the apology didn’t work,” T.J. explained, and Cyrus grinned so wide that his cheeks hurt.

“Well, it’s working!” he told him sincerely, taking a giant bite of the treat.  It had been so long since he’d had one, he’d almost forgotten what they tasted like.  “How did you know this was my favorite muffin?”

A flash of something Cyrus didn’t recognize gleamed in T.J.’s eyes before it vanished, like a light flickering on and off.  “I thought everyone liked them,” he said, adding a shrug.

Cyrus beamed.  “They’d be crazy _not_ to!”  He took another bite.  “By the way, I’m sorry, too,” Cyrus said, talking around the muffin.  He swallowed and he looked at T.J.

“What for?” T.J. asked, confused.  

“For meddling,” he elaborated. “It’s a bad habit!  I blame my four shrink parents.”

T.J. huffed out an amused breath, and Cyrus returned it.  “As long as you’re the only one trying to get me to open up and not your four shrink parents, I think I’ll be fine.  It’s our thing, right?”

Cyrus felt all the anxiety pooling in his stomach fall away, like an ice cream cone melting on a summer’s day.

 _It’s our thing, right?_  

Yeah.  It kind of was, wasn’t it?

In Cyrus’s opinion, just saying that was the best thing the basketball player could’ve ever given him. (Even better than a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin.)  (And _that_ was saying something.)

“Right,” Cyrus affirmed, a smile pulling at his features.  “I’m glad.”

T.J. returned it, mirth dancing in his eyes.  “Me, too.”

They held a soft gaze momentarily, neither of them noticing the secretary creeping in on the edges of their peripheral vision.  She cleared her throat in order to garner their attention, and the two boys jerked their heads toward her, Cyrus in question and T.J. in annoyance.  

“B-boys, Dr. Metcalf is w-waiting in his office for you,” the secretary stammered.  Her words were always unstable, like her voice was on the brink of breaking, but they still managed to squeeze Cyrus’s heart painfully.  His previous nervousness crept back into his body, clinging to his chest as he stood up with trembling legs.   _What am I going to do?_

“Are you nervous?” T.J. questioned, lightly guiding him forward.  His hand rested on the small of Cyrus’s back, and Cyrus halted right in front of Dr. Metcalf’s door.  They both could sense the uneasy tension swelling up on the other side, and Cyrus was sure that the metal door handle would slice his hand in half if he touched it.

“Nervous? When am I _not_ nervous,” Cyrus tried to joke.  It fell flat from the rattled shaking of his voice, revealing the anxiety lying behind the thin veil of faux confidence.

His anxiety was always going up, up, up, like an elevator.  Sometimes it didn’t stop until it reached the very top, and then Cyrus felt like he was plummeting, free falling in the sky.

T.J.’s hand moved from his spine to his shoulder blade, and he squeezed it comfortingly.  “You’ll be fine. I promise,” T.J. reassured. “I’ll be right there beside you the whole time.” Cyrus smiled.  He liked the sound of that.

They pushed through the door, neither of them making eye contact as they situated themselves in front of Dr. Metcalf’s desk.  

It was different from the last few times he’d been in the principal’s office.  The first time had been Dr. Metcalf’s second day of school, when he and Buffy and Andi all dressed in prison garb.  It had been easier then; he had Andi and Buffy with him, and he didn’t have to crack under Dr. Metcalf’s intimidating presence by himself.  The time after, he’d gotten called in to make that school video, the one that failed horrendously, and he’d been so nervous that he couldn’t stop bouncing his leg (and Cyrus hadn’t even been in _trouble_ that time).

At least he had T.J. this time.  That’s what he kept thinking to himself: _At least I have T.J._

Well, he didn’t _have_ him, have him, not like that but—whatever!  He knew what he meant!

At first, Dr. Metcalf said nothing, and the tense silence felt like it was swallowing Cyrus whole.  That’s all he could feel right then:  _tension_.  It was bound to the oxygen in the air, filling his lungs

Cyrus looked over at T.J., who looked like he couldn’t care less that he was about to get in trouble, lectured by the school principal.  He didn’t even think it was a mask—T.J. just looked bored by the entire situation, period.

T.J. Kippen was so much cooler than he ever could’ve imagined.

Dr. Metcalf was the first to break the silence in the room, and Cyrus almost shot up out of his seat in startlement.  “Do you both know why you’re here?” he asked, even though they both were painfully aware of the situation at hand.

Cyrus nodded and hung his head in shame while T.J. merely shrugged.   Dr. Metcalf didn’t seem to find his apathetic demeanor as nearly as cool as Cyrus did.  “You’re here because you both skipped detention yesterday,” he said sternly, giving them each an equally pointed look.

Cyrus was sure his bones were rattling like loose screws in a toolbox, and he tried to suppress the sudden tightness in his throat with a painful swallow.  “Dr. Metcalf, I—”

“Now is not the time, Cyrus,” the principal chided, giving him an incisive glance.  

Cyrus thought he might explode, whether out of embarrassment, guilt, or fear, he wasn’t sure, but then T.J. squeezed his forearm, as if to remind him that he was there.  He bet T.J. could feel a pulse if he pushed down on his wrist hard enough, but, then again, he wasn’t even sure he had one at the moment.

T.J. pulled away from him all too quickly, and Cyrus almost frowned.  “So? Can we go now?” he asked flatly. Cyrus could practically feel T.J.’s annoyance emitting off him in concentrated waves; it was so strong, he could almost adopt it as his own.

Dr. Metcalf’s eyes flared dangerously at the question, and for a split second, Cyrus thought T.J. was going to get killed.

 _Wow,_ his stepmom really wasn’t joking when she told him he had an overactive imagination.

“No, T.J., you and your _partner in crime_ ,” the principal added bitingly, jerking his head toward Cyrus, “broke the rules.  And because of this, I’m rewarding you both _two_ extra days of detention.”  He said this like it was an honor, a badge they should wear with pride on their chest.  It felt like the exact _opposite_ of a trophy.  At least to Cyrus.

“Okay,” T.J. said, his tone annoyed.  Now _Cyrus_ wanted to squeeze _his_ arm.  

He kept his hands in his lap instead.  He wasn’t nearly as confident as T.J. was.  “I understand,” Cyrus said sullenly.

Dr. Metcalf looked at the two boys once again, and his gaze was so incisive that Cyrus wondered if he was trying to cut them with his eyes.  “ _Now_ you may go,” the principal said, his voice almost sarcastic.  He turned away from the boys in his swivel chair and made a move for his phone, probably to tell the secretary to bring the next batch of kids in.  Cyrus immediately felt sorry for them.

With a scoff of his own, T.J. was out of his seat and on the other side of the door, not even giving Cyrus a chance to catch up with him.  Cyrus gave Dr. Metcalf one last apologetic (and slightly frightened) glance at T.J.’s abrupt departure before he weaved through the hallways, his eyes scanning for the basketball player.  

Cyrus found him by his locker, giving the metal door of locker 153 an aggravated jerk.  “That was rough,” Cyrus remarked, the corner of his mouth downturned.

T.J. paused momentarily at his words.  “Yeah, but you got through it,” he said, and the anger flashing in his eyes seemed to soften.  Cyrus’s stomach did a flip. “I knew you would.”

Cyrus remembered T.J. squeezing his arm, and something hopeful fluttered in his chest.  Hope that maybe he’d found a friend in T.J. And maybe T.J. had found one in him, too.

“It’s all thanks to you,” Cyrus told him sincerely, adding on, “partner in crime.”  T.J. rolled his eyes playfully, a hint of a smile on his face as he closed his locker shut.  “ _I_ think it has a nice ring to it,” Cyrus protested.  “Just think: we could get matching T-shirts!”

“ _Matching_ T-shirts?” T.J. said, raising an eyebrow in amusement as they began their trek down the hallway.  A flashback to Jonah’s reluctance to wear matching jackets after that sports game (was it hockey?  Basketball?  Cyrus was _there_ , and even he couldn’t remember) flickered in his mind, and his stomach gave an unpleasant twist.  Would T.J. react the same way? He _knew_ T.J. and Jonah weren’t the same person, but his heart seemed to freeze anyway.

“Yeah, _only_ if you wanted to, of cour—”

“I’m down,” T.J. said, giving a careless shrug.  Cyrus’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise. _Well, that was unexpected._

A spark of excitement fired in his chest, and before he could ramble on about T-shirt colors and sizing and _oh, what design should we get?_ , T.J.interrupted him, saying, “Wanna hang out after school tomorrow?”

The spontaneous invitation made Cyrus halt in the middle of the hallway, and T.J. paused with him.  Had he heard that right?

“ _You_ want to hang out with _me_?” Cyrus asked incredulously, his eyebrows raised.  T.J. turned to face him in the hallway, attempting to stick to the right side next to the lockers in order to prevent other students from running into him.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” T.J. questioned, giving another shrug.   _Wow_ , that boy sure did shrug a lot.  Cyrus kind of wanted to lean up and force his shoulders down.

Cyrus resumed their walking, and T.J. followed suit, mirroring his actions.  “Well, you’re the captain of the basketball team, and I’m kind of invisible,” Cyrus mused aloud, like it was obvious.  Well, it _was_ obvious.  At least to him.  “I’m sort of surprised you’re talking to me at all,” he confessed.

“Underdog, you’re not invisible,” T.J. replied with a shake of his head, a smile that Cyrus only ever managed to extract from him lighting up his face.  “At least, not to me.”

His words made something unfurl in Cyrus’s chest, like a block of ice thawing in his heart, and he returned T.J.’s beam.  “Thanks.”

T.J. smiled again.  “So, are you in or out?”

Cyrus’s mind briefly flashed back to their original topic, and he let out a frown, his lips pursing themselves together in worry.  “I can’t, actually.  I’m helping my friend Jonah Beck after school tomorrow.  Can I get a raincheck?”

The bell rang just then, and T.J. clapped him on the shoulder.  “Yeah.  Whenever.”

They farewelled, then parted, heading to their respective classes.  But as Cyrus watched him walk away, he noticed the way the strained way basketball player was holding himself, his shoulders tense and his back too rigid to be considered casual, and Cyrus frowned.  Had he said something wrong?

He ran their conversation through his mind, and it suddenly dawned on him for the first time during their entire interaction that T.J. had called him Underdog.  His chest swelled.

 _I guess T.J. found my new nickname, after all_ , he thought with a beam.  Then, in a flourish, he bounded to class, not even struggling to find the bounce in his step.

* * *

_Have fun with Jonah today. -T.J._

* * *

Cyrus felt the excitement thrumming in his fingertips, like his atoms were humming to life, full of boundless electricity.  This was it! What he’d been looking forward to all week!

After his interaction with T.J. on Monday, the day had seemed to drag on for forever.  Dr. Metcalf even kept a relentless gaze on them all throughout detention, as if he didn’t trust them enough to even _breathe_ without making a mess, so it had been a little uneventful.  Cyrus didn’t even think they exchanged more than two notes the entire period.  

But he found one from T.J. in his locker this morning, so it kind of made up for the lack of them yesterday.  And it made him smile. As always.

He didn’t think T.J. could write a note that _didn’t_ make him beam.

Cyrus breathed in contentedly as he took in his surroundings, feeling the store’s familiar sharp copper and leather smell fill his nose.  He was so glad that he’d finally made it! He didn’t get much time to spend with _just_ Jonah, usually because the Frisbee player was with Andi or going on double dates with Buffy and Marty (Cyrus used to be invited along, but he always felt like a fifth wheel, so he stopped after a while), so this was a nice change.  A _really_ nice change.

He discovered Jonah in the corner, plucking up a beaten acoustic guitar that resided permanently in a guitar stand off to the side.  It was the same instrument he always played in his performances, and Cyrus was as accustomed to its fraying strings and washed out body as Jonah was.  

“Hey, Cyrus!” Jonah called, waving him over.  Cyrus strode to the corner, where Jonah was fiddling with a small container spilling over with a colorful array of guitar picks.  

“Hey, Jonah, what’s up?” he asked, a bright smile lighting up his face.  He’d played over what he would say all day, had mulled and tossed it over so many times that he was anticipating every corner and dip of their conversation.  Jonah was a guy of few words, and Cyrus wasn’t expecting him to stray far from their normal topics of dialogue: Frisbee, guitar, school, Andi.  He could do this!

“Nothing much, dude,” Jonah replied with his normal dazzling smile, idly fussing with his guitar.  His fingers pinched and twisted the tuning pegs, and Jonah tested them each individually by strumming a melodious chord.  After adjusting all six pegs, the Frisbee player hummed contentedly to himself.

“So, are you friends with T.J. Kippen or something?” Jonah asked conversationally.  The way he said it was so casual, just like normal small talk, but Cyrus’s eyes went wide like saucers.  

“ _How_ do you know that?” he asked, almost desperately.  Had Jonah seen them together? Did Buffy and Andi know, too? He hadn’t planned on _T.J. Kippen_ being in their topic of conversation.  Not in a million years!

Jonah shrugged, like he didn’t seem to notice the urgent weight to Cyrus’s words.  “I dunno.  He just came by your locker the other day and dropped off something while I was waiting for you.”

 _Jonah was waiting for me?_ a thought rang out, but Cyrus snuffed it, feeling a rush of relief sweep through him.  So only _Jonah_ had seen him. Good.

“He was probably dropping off a note for me,” Cyrus explained, then halted, wishing he could shove his words back into his mouth and swallow them.  He really _was_ the worst person at hiding stuff!

If he was being honest with himself, it was bound to slip sooner or later, but he let himself sit in the denial for just a little longer.

“That’s cool!” Jonah replied offhandedly, his fingers ghosting over the frets of his guitar.  

“ _Please_ don’t tell Andi and Buffy,” Cyrus pleaded, trying to get his point across.  He knew he needed to stress this to Jonah; if there was one thing the Frisbee player _wasn’t_ good at, it was at keeping secrets (not that Cyrus was any better), and even though Cyrus had thought of it as an endearing trait of his before, right now it was making his stomach twist.

“How come?” Jonah asked, confused.  Jonah’s eyebrows drew together in the cute way it always did when he was perplexed, and Cyrus kind of wanted to smooth out the line between them with his thumb.  “Are you guys dating or something?” he joked. Jonah was too oblivious to even _mean_ that statement, but it made Cyrus’s heart spike nevertheless.

“ _No_ ,” Cyrus protested, “but Buffy has always hated the boys’ basketball team, including T.J.,” he said.  He hadn’t even considered it as a reason to hide his relationship with T.J. until the words were past his lips.  It _was_ kind of true.  She’d been complaining about them since seventh grade, when they didn’t let her on the boys’ basketball team and she was forced to form her own for the girls.  “Besides, I just…wanted to keep this to myself for a little bit.  Is that weird?” he rambled. He didn’t know why he was spilling all the things swimming in his head, but the pressure weighing on his chest felt somewhat alleviated, at least a little bit.

Jonah shook his head understandingly.  “It’s not weird. And chill, dude; your secret's safe with me.”  Jonah clapped him on the shoulder, and that alone made Cyrus better, but a small ball of worry and fear still seemed to be lingering in his stomach. What if Jonah _did_ tell?

Before the doubt could creep too far in his mind, Jonah spoke, saying, “Anyway, can I show you my song now?”

Cyrus was grateful for the distraction and he nodded, flashing a wide smile.  “Show me what you got, JB!”

Jonah gave out a hearty laugh that reminded Cyrus of twinkling bells, bright and clear, and they sat down in the shabby arm chairs, Jonah nestling his worn guitar between his arm and his thigh.  The tuning pegs nearly poked Cyrus in the face, but he couldn’t care less as Jonah began to strum something slow and soft and nothing like Cyrus had ever heard the boy play before. He was captured by the way Jonah’s nimble fingers were gliding over the gleaming strings and sliding fluidly across the frets, the smooth trill of each strum emitting from the acoustic guitar.  It was clear that Jonah knew the song like the back of his hand, could tell Cyrus every small dip and groove in the notes. That was what Cyrus admired about him so much: Jonah Beck was just so _perfect_.  Cyrus figured that as long as Jonah’s smile never lost its brilliant shine, his feelings for the boy would never wane.

Jonah began to sing, belting out the notes in a strong tenor, and Cyrus was so enthralled by his performance that he let himself think, as stupid as it was, that the song was about _him_.  That Jonah was singing this beautiful, romantic love song to him, not to Andi, not to Amber, just _Cyrus._  And maybe it was a little pathetic, deluding himself like this, but it was like a spell had washed over him, making Cyrus only see cartoon hearts in the air.

Finally the singing and strumming stopped, and Cyrus sat there in his dazed state, looking at Jonah with the widest smile he could possibly conjure up.  (Not that it took much effort. Not in the least!)

“So?” Jonah said, breaking Cyrus from his thoughts.  He was breathing a little hard, like he’d given away all the oxygen in his body for the song.  “What did you think?”

Cyrus perked up.  “What did I think?  I thought it was _fantastic_!  No person in their right mind would be able to hate that song.”

Jonah broke out into a relieved smile.  “Do you think Andi will like it?”

And then suddenly all of his awe fell away, crumbling into dust until he was just a skin of sadness and disappointment and unmet expectations.  The embodiment of loneliness.

“Andi’s gonna _love_ it,” Cyrus promised, but something inside of him was splintering.  Cyrus couldn’t tell if it was mind or his heart. Or maybe just him entirely.

A sudden urge to run out of the Red Rooster overwhelmed him, like when he kissed Iris during that documentary and couldn’t stomach it long enough to stay for the rest, and words were spilling from his mouth before he could register them.  “Actually, I just remembered, my mom wanted me home to help with some therapy stuff, so I’ll see you at school,” he said hurriedly, scrambling to his feet.

The light in Jonah’s eyes didn’t wane in the slightest, still shining exceptionally bright, like nothing could eclipse it.  Cyrus guessed he got what he wanted. After all, he said he never wanted Jonah’s smile to lose its shine, and now that he felt like he was breaking, Jonah remained as unfazed as ever.

Cyrus didn’t know how he felt, but suddenly Jonah wasn’t making him feel like a sunbeam.  Not like he usually did.

“Bye, Cy-Guy,” he farewelled, returning back to his plucking.  Cyrus didn’t even bother turning around to catch one last glimpse of him, instead pushing himself out the door and trying to shove down the tightness in his throat.  

_Bye._

* * *

Okay, this time T.J. _swore_ he wasn’t stalking Cyrus.  Not that he had been the other times, but this time he _definitely_ wasn’t.

T.J. had been thumbing through a stack of glossy vinyl outside, doing a quick browsing session (once Reed had tried to convince him to steal one of the albums, but T.J. thought that even _he_ wasn’t stupid enough to try that) when an abrupt chime sounded from the Red Rooster’s door.  The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost a reflex, when he saw the person’s familiar dark hair and collared shirt.  

Maybe the universe just _wanted_ them to hang out.  The thought amused him.

“Hey, Underdog,” he called out boldly.  Cyrus swiveled around, and T.J. struggled to make out his expression from the distance.  “What’s up?”

Cyrus inched closer to him, and a flash of confusion flickered across T.J.’s face, a frown pulling at his lips.  Cyrus looked ripped at the seams, like even the air he was breathing was laced with defeat.

“Nothing much,” Cyrus said, his lips turned down.  His voice wavered. “What about you?”

T.J. ignored his question, his confusion still overflowing at the edges of his mind.  “You okay?”

Cyrus drew in a shaky breath, as if he were trying to stabilize his lungs.  “I will be,” he said, his shoulders tilting up in a shrug. T.J. felt a pang ripple in his chest.  “What are you doing here?”

T.J. tried not to sigh in frustration.  He wanted Cyrus to _talk_ to him, to tell him what was on his mind, but it didn’t seem like Cyrus was going to say much, at least not right now.  He decided not to push him any further. “Just browsing. And I’m guessing you’re hanging out with Jonah, right?”

T.J. had written a note to Cyrus that morning, telling him to have fun with the Frisbee player, so he _knew_ they were hanging out.  A small part of him had meant the words a little sarcastically, but he didn’t know why.  He didn't know a lot of things, lately.

Well, not that T.J. had _ever_ known things, much less understood them.  But he felt a lot more confused than usual, which was new.  And weird.   _Definitely_ weird.

Luckily Cyrus had thanked him for the note later that day, so it didn’t seem like he’d caught on, but now T.J. felt guilt plaguing his stomach for meaning it that way.  Especially now that it seemed like Cyrus  _hadn’t_ had that much fun, if the sad gleam in his eyes was any indication.

Cyrus’s eyes dimmed at the mention of it, and T.J. wondered what exactly had caused him to turn sour.  “Yeah, just hanging out with my bro, you know how we do,” he said, but he could tell that Cyrus’s heart wasn’t entirely in it.  T.J. decided to humor him anyway, to play along with his charade.

But if Cyrus thought he wasn’t going to bring this back up again later (in their notes or otherwise), he was dead wrong.

“Niceburg,” he said.  A voice in the back of his mind said that _he_ wouldn’t have made Cyrus feel bad if they’d hung out, but T.J. pushed it to the side.   _Stop_ , T.J. said to himself.  He refrained from rolling his eyes at himself.   _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Before he could say much else, a buzz sounded from his back pocket and T.J. drew it from his pocket, sighing.  “That’s my mom. I gotta go. See you tomorrow?”

Cyrus nodded, his eyes still dull, and T.J. tried not to frown. “Yeah, of course.  Bye, T.J.”

His mind flashed back to that day at the swings, how Cyrus had kept saying his name.  Like if he put enough pressure on it, he’d send the world flying into shards of glass.

A rush of emotions surged through his chest, so muddled that T.J. couldn’t identify them.  “Bye,” T.J. said endearingly, almost as if he were saying it to himself. He ruffled Cyrus’s dark hair before he realized he was doing it, and Cyrus’s eyes seemed a bit brighter, like the spark of a match had gone off in his pupils.  He was glad that the light in his eyes was visible again, and his stomach formed a knot as he wondered what Jonah had done to eclipse it.

He turned to walk home, trying to shake the sudden surge of emotions from his chest, but just as he began to saunter away, Cyrus called out.  “Hey, T.J.!”

He turned back his head, catching Cyrus’s gaze, and a smile that he hadn’t been expecting tugged itself onto his lips.  “Yeah?” he asked, his tone coming out more cheery than he had anticipated. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.

A soft smile grew on Cyrus’s face.  “Thanks.”

T.J. wondered what he was thanking him for.  For making him feel better?

If anything, T.J. should be thanking Cyrus for that, for making him feel better about a _lot_ of things over the past week.  Heck, he should even be thanking him for pulling the dumb fire alarm that day, the same day he’d…

Well.  That wasn’t important.    

“Anytime, Cyrus,” he said, his voice too, too soft.  That funny feeling went through him again, and T.J. shoved it down until his mind went numb.  

As he strolled back to his house, T.J. tried not to think about why he wanted to say ‘bye’ one more time, or why the urge to look back and catch a glimpse of Cyrus was so strong he could taste it in his mouth, like sage exploding on his tongue.

Instead he kept driving himself forward on the sidewalk, not stopping once all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let us know what you thought in the comment section below! 💕


	6. Give Us Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: oh, this chapter should only be 3K, no big deal!  
> The chapter: is over 6.9K  
> Me: oh.
> 
> On that note, please check out the AMAZING art created by my partner Di [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/183509361879/the-notes-we-write-chapter-6). Thank you for any kudos, hits, and comments (we especially love those, we love to know what you think!)

* * *

****_Today’s detention.  Don’t forget your pen and paper.  -T.J._

* * *

Cyrus found himself shuffling around the order of his locker, just like he had been last Friday.  It was another nervous tactic of his, he supposed. He had about a billion of them, and even _he_ couldn’t keep track of them all.

He lined up the books on his shelves by class order, arranged all his ink pens and mechanical pencils by color, and coordinated the magnets on his locker door, shifting the pictures of him and his friends wedged underneath.  There was something so calming about organizing his locker; it kind of helped straighten out the mess in his mind, too. Like he was taking his feelings and unraveling them like a ball of yarn, separating and sorting them into different boxes.  (Was it possible to give your sadness and loneliness away to Goodwill?)

Ever since that Tuesday at the Red Rooster, Cyrus had felt lost, like a muddled fog was swirling around in his mind, taking up too much space.  He felt confused about Jonah, mostly, not that he’d _ever_ been able to figure him out.  Sometimes he felt like he never would.

Cyrus wondered if he was being overdramatic about the whole situation.  After all, he’d witnessed Jonah and Andi’s romantic status fluctuate more times than he could count, and it never had _this_ much of an effect on him.

Maybe there was only so much he could handle before he broke.  And maybe he had discovered that, too, in his clutter of feelings.  That he could break.

Suddenly organizing wasn’t so much fun anymore.  

His hand ghosted absentmindedly over a picture from seventh grade of Jonah, Buffy, Andi, and himself at the Frisbee park, watching one of Jonah’s first meets of the year.  The hint of a fond smile reached his mouth; he was wearing that 20 pound vest of his, and Jonah had an arm wrapped around his shoulders, not even caring about the bulk of sunscreen, snacks, and energy drinks strapped to his chest.  It was the first time he realized that Jonah actually wanted to be his friend. That they _were_ friends.  

The memory was tainted with melancholy once he thought about it, once he let the day roll back in his head.  He hadn’t known he was going to be in this mess only a mere year later back then. He wished he could talk to seventh grade Cyrus.

 _Don’t let yourself fall for Jonah Beck,_ Cyrus would say to his past self.   _It’s not worth it!_

It probably wouldn’t have worked, anyway.  Cyrus was pretty sure he’d fallen for Jonah by then.  He just hadn’t realized it yet…

“Hey, Cyrus!” a familiar voice called out from afar.  Cyrus jerked his head in surprise, then felt his stomach roll over in discomfort.   _Jonah.  Speak of the devil!_

He shut his locker door, smoothing down in his shirt in an attempt to feel _some_ control over what was happening.  If Cyrus had it his way, he’d be halfway across the school by now.  (Why did he have to be allergic to running? Or to all sports, for that matter?)

“He-hey, Jonah,” Cyrus greeted back, his voice cracking.  He hadn’t had a voice crack like _that_ since seventh grade, and he definitely hadn’t been faltering as much around Jonah lately, at least not like he used to.  All that seemed to have gone out the window. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say thank you, you know, for the other day at the Red Rooster?” he said, as if Cyrus didn’t remember it.  Cyrus’s brow drew together. “I feel like you’ve kind of been avoiding me,” Jonah admitted lamely, shifting the backpack strap lazily hanging off of his shoulder.   

A burst of guilt erupted in his belly.  He hadn’t _purposely_ been avoiding Jonah.  He just _happened_ to go the other way when he saw him in the hallway, or somehow managed to miss him at The Spoon.

Okay, so _maybe_ he had been avoiding Jonah.  Just a little bit.

“I would _never_!” he claimed, shaking his head fervently.  His own voice sounded synthetic, saturated with fakeness, and Cyrus internally cringed.

Jonah cracked a smile, and Cyrus tried to contain his sigh of relief.   _Good_.  Jonah believed him.  “Whatever, dude, just…thanks for helping me out,” the Frisbee player said with a beam, patting Cyrus on the back as he moved past him.

Cyrus sighed to himself, his lips pursed as Jonah walked away.  He wondered when Jonah Beck would stop being able to make him go weak in the knees just from flashing his pearly white smile.

More importantly, he wondered when he could tell someone _about_ Jonah, about what he felt.  He didn’t know…he hated that Buffy was stuck in the middle of him and Andi, like a wedge driven in between them.  A wedge that _he_ had put there.  He wanted to tell Andi so badly about his feelings for Jonah, about how sweet and cute and just plain _frustrating_ he could be sometimes, but his stomach turned at the thought of confessing his crush to her.  She was just so happy with Jonah lately. He didn’t want to disrupt that!

 _Especially_ when he remembered how Andi had reacted to Buffy and Walker being a thing for a month or so earlier this year…

Cyrus tried to shake the thoughts from his head.  He’d be _fine_!  He could just drown in his feelings, no big deal!

He didn’t know if he convinced himself or not.  

He caught a pair of green eyes in the hallway, ones that didn’t belong to Jonah, and he smiled to the figure, waving excitedly.  “Hey, T.J.!”

The basketball player flashed him one of his amused smiles, the kind that lit up his eyes and made them crinkle at the edges.  

“Hey, Underdog!” he returned just as brightly, passing by him as he made his way through the hall.  A few weeks ago, a cheery tone coming from T.J. Kippen would’ve jarred Cyrus, and maybe everyone else, too.  But now a beam from him seemed almost _natural_ , like an reflex.  Cyrus soaked them all up, no matter what; you could never get enough smiles from T.J., he had decided.

He briefly entertained the thought of telling T.J. about his crush on Jonah, and, more importantly, about telling T.J. that he was gay.  It was possible T.J. already knew the latter, especially since Cyrus didn’t exactly _hide_ it anymore, didn’t keep it like a hand of poker cards to his chest, but who knew how common of knowledge it was?  T.J. could’ve thought he was as hopelessly heterosexual as Jonah Beck for all Cyrus knew!

The weird thing was, Cyrus _wanted_ to tell him.  He wanted to spill all his frustrations and insecurities and things stuffed inside of him that were never meant to escape to the basketball player until his jaw was sore.  Because even though T.J. could’ve easily shunned him that first day of detention, could’ve ignored him like he was that invisible boy Cyrus saw himself as, he listened and talked to him and _accepted_ him.  And Cyrus got the feeling that he’d do the same with this, too.  

Still, a tug in his stomach kept stopping him.  He wondered when he’d _ever_ gather the courage…

Shaking his thoughts from his mind, Cyrus walked to class, trying not to let everything thrumming through him sweep him away.

* * *

_I’ll be there :) -Cyrus_

* * *

His first few classes flew by in a whirlwind and, before he knew it, Cyrus was sitting down at his usual table, joining the four other members of their normal lunch group.  None of them seemed to notice him sit down, all of them lost in the fog of their own separate conversations, and Cyrus poked at his lunch dejectedly, trying not to feel like he was a fifth wheel.

 _No one needs a fifth wheel,_ he thought solemnly to himself.  Nobody at all.

Buffy suddenly chimed in with a teasing laugh, the kind that was hard to draw out of her, and Cyrus didn’t even need to glance up from his lunch tray to see who had caused it.   _Marty from the Party._ Of course.

His eyes flickered up to the other couple across from him, Jonah and Andi, while the two of them shared a fleeting, almost private gaze.  His face burned, and Cyrus lowered his glance back down to his tray. He felt like he was intruding, trespassing on something that he shouldn’t have seen in the first place.

Cyrus couldn’t help but think that he could rush out of the cafeteria right then and the four of them would still be laughing, acting like they were all in on some kind of private joke that only couples could understand.  (Did that happen when you dated someone? Like your eyes were opened for the first time? Cyrus had never felt that way about Iris; he’d always felt like a fogged up window, like he had to squint to make out figures and shapes.)

He didn’t know when he had started feeling like an intruder in his own friend group, or when the Good Hair Crew had become the Good Hair Crew _and_ Ensemble.  Maybe it was when Marty was a recurring character in their visits to The Spoon again, or maybe when Jonah and Andi had gotten back together, making everyone surrounding them feel like they were on the outside of their relationship bubble.  

It was different when it was just Buffy, Andi, and him (with occasionally appearances from Jonah), but now Buffy had someone, too, and when they were all together, it was like he was forgotten, an afterthought.

He didn’t know.  All he knew was that he wished he could have someone there beside him.  Someone that wouldn’t make him feel as lonely as he did right now.

Buffy finally seemed to notice that he had sat down next to her and she tore her attention away from Marty, flashing him a smile.  “Hey! What’s up?” she said, her attitude seeming more cheery than usual.  Marty and Jonah continued talking, but Andi’s eyes flickered to Cyrus, scooting away from the boys and toward the other two Good Hair Crew members.

“Yeah!” she said, scooting closer.  Cyrus had to strain to hear her over Marty and Jonah’s conversation (they were droning about something sports related, not interested).  “I feel like we haven’t talked in forever! How’s detention, Cyrus?”

“Good,” he said, nodding nonchalantly.  He ignored the part of him that was bursting at the seams to talk about T.J. and their notes and everything else they shared, but he forced himself to choke it down.  

“So, how’s your ‘detention buddy’?” Andi asked suggestively, leaning forward in interest.  Oh, why was she _taunting_ him so?  One more look like that and he was going to spill everything!  “When do we get to meet him?”

Cyrus shook his head, understanding what she was implying.  “I don’t like him like that, Andi—”

“I’m not saying you _do_ , I just think it’s interesting how you won’t tell us anything about him is all,” she said with a knowing smile.  Cyrus was pretty sure she had been reading too many Nancy Drew novels; she was looking into things too much, observing him with her mental magnifying glass!  Was this how people felt when he meddled?

 _Nah_ , Cyrus told himself.  They couldn’t!

“Yeah, who _is_ it anyway?” Buffy piped up, a smirk on her face.  

Cyrus’s eyes flickered over to Jonah, who suddenly seemed quiet on the other side of the table.  The Frisbee player’s eyes quickly glanced away, and Cyrus could practically see the guilt engraved in his features.   _Please, don’t ask Jonah why he looks suspicious_ , Cyrus prayed to himself.  

“It’s no one!” he insisted.  He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this charade up, or if he even _wanted_ to, but he didn’t want to answer them right now.  Not yet.

Soon.  Maybe.

The two girls shared a private glance, like they were in on some kind of inside joke that they hadn’t let him in on, and then they both went chattering back to Marty and Jonah, talking about whatever couples talked about.  Cyrus frowned into his pizza.

A weird part of him wished that T.J. were here.  Maybe they could joke like they usually did, or talk about important things.  He didn’t know…he always felt like they were on the same page, neither one of them a step ahead of the other.  

T.J. made him feel _seen_ , even if Cyrus still couldn’t quite believe that the basketball player was talking to him sometimes.  

A burst of laughter erupted from the table, probably from a joke that Marty had told, and Cyrus put on a false smile, trying to match their note of mirth.  

 _Back to being left out, I guess_ , he thought glumly.  

Then he felt guilty for feeling so left out by his friends, friends that were trying to include him despite having significant others and school and their own lives, so he tried to ignore the turning in his stomach and stood up from his chair.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he announced, his voice unintentionally gloomy.  Buffy and Andi’s eyes shot to him in concern.

“You okay?” Buffy questioned, her eyebrows raised in concern.  The four all turned to look at him, and the sudden flood of attention made him feel flustered.  He didn’t like when the spotlight was put on him in bad situations, at least not when he wasn’t alone with Buffy and Andi.  He only liked it when he got a good grade on his English test, or he pulled off a difficult move in dance class without twisting his hamstring.  Now he just felt all fidgety, and he wanted to get away, away from their prying eyes. It was like were shredding him to pieces with their gaze, his heart bared on his sleeve for all to see.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he told them, not sounding so convincing.  He tried again. “Just a bad day in dance class.”

Everyone returned back to their lunches, seemingly convinced, but Buffy kept pushing.  She was always like that. Pushed until she broke through. It was one of Cyrus’s favorite things about her, that she was always trying, never giving up, but right now he wished she wasn’t so headstrong.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”  He saw her eyes flit to Jonah and Andi out of the corner of her vision, and Cyrus shook his head.

“ _No_ ,” he said, probably too adamantly.  A tug of guilt went through his stomach, and then, softer, he added, “I’ll be good.  Thanks, though.” He gave his best impression of a smile, although it felt fake, even to him, and Buffy nodded cautiously.

“We can talk about it later, then,” she said, giving him a pointed look.

Instead of fighting with her, he nodded with a half-hearted and turned.  Later. Sure. He could do that.

He’d probably leave out the part where Marty and Buffy were making him feel left out, too.  He was already causing enough havoc in their friend group for one day. There was no need to make Buffy feel bad about something she couldn’t control.

Once he reached the bathroom, Cyrus leaned against one of the sinks, his hands clutching both sides of the porcelain, and he glanced at himself in the mirror.  _You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay_ , a voice spoke in his mind (that sounded suspiciously like Buffy).  Despite repeating it to himself a bunch of times, he wasn’t sure if it had any effect on the raging war in his chest.

A figure formed out of the corner of his eye, and he could only make out a sweep of light hair from the reflection of the mirror stuck to the wall.  Cyrus turned, finding himself face to face with T.J. Kippen.

“Oh, hey,” Cyrus said, a sort of sad smile reaching his lips.  It was odd, being alone with T.J. Kippen in the boys’ bathroom, but he found that he didn’t really mind.  Not at all.

“What’s up?” T.J. asked, raising his eyebrows in question.  He leaned against the mirror. Only T.J. could make _leaning_ in a odor-infested boy’s bathroom look cool.  At least, that was what Cyrus thought.

“Hiding from my friends,” he admitted.  “You?”

“Just chilling,” T.J. said casually, strolling forward.  He rested a hand on the sink adjacent from Cyrus. “Why are you hiding from your friends?” he asked curiously.

Cyrus sighed, then ran his hands under the faucet.  It took a second for the water to warm up. “I feel like I’m their fifth wheel,” he confessed.  He pumped soap into his palm, desperately trying to get the feeling of _school lunch_ that was clinging to him off.

T.J. snatched a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, handing the stack wordlessly to him, and Cyrus sent him a thankful smile.  “And why’s that?”

Cyrus crumpled the paper towels with his hands and tried to toss them into the trash can.  He missed, hitting the rim instead. “Well, Buffy and Marty are a thing, and Jonah and Andi are dating, of course, so I guess I feel kind of left out.  No one needs a fifth wheel,” he revealed sullenly. He felt selfish for feeling that way, but a part of him was happy to get the feelings out now instead of later; at least he didn’t have to hold onto it for the whole day, mulling it and tossing it over so many times in his head until it became as cracked as worn leather.

“Well, you can always sit with me at lunch,” T.J. offered casually, shrugging.  The invitation probably wasn’t a big deal to T.J., but it made Cyrus’s heart skip a beat.  “I mean, I eat alone, so I guess you can be upgraded to second wheel instead of fifth,” T.J. joked lamely.

“Bikes _do_ need two wheels,” Cyrus remarked with a smile.  And just like that, T.J. was taking part of the weight off his shoulders, making him forget it had even been there in the first place.

“And, thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine,” Cyrus continued, a small smile still ghosting his lips.  “I’m kind of used to it.” Then T.J.’s words hit him, rolling behind his eyelids. “Wait, you eat lunch alone?  Why?”

T.J. looked like he was frowning, but it was hard to tell.  “I just do,” he said, shrugging.

Cyrus wanted to push, nudge deeper into the issue, but T.J. looked uncomfortable, like something heavy was weighing down on his shoulders, so Cyrus chose to swallow his curiosity down instead.  “Anyway, ready for detention?” Cyrus asked. He felt a shift in the heavy atmosphere, like everything had been eerily still and was now churning back to life.

“Always am,” T.J. replied indifferently.  “Are you?”

Cyrus nodded, beaming.  “Yep! Got my pen and paper like you told me to,” he teased, referencing T.J.’s note from that morning.  He silently wondered what they’d talk about. After all, they seemed to have been straying away from writing about heavy topics, like T.J.’s possible learning disability, or why he’d run out of the Red Rooster on Tuesday.  Maybe they were trying to save it all for detention, so they could let it run out of their pens until their words bled through the paper. “You’ll probably beat me there, though,” Cyrus added. “The hallway at the end of the day _still_ terrifies me.”

T.J. tilted his head to the side, like he was contemplating something.  “Well, I _did_ promise you I’d help you get over your fear,” T.J. reminded him, mirth dancing in his eyes.  Cyrus eyebrows jumped. How exactly was T.J. planning on helping him? As far as Cyrus knew, it was part of his irreversible trauma (he had a lot!).  “What’s your seventh period?”

“Science,” Cyrus answered cautiously.  “Why?”

T.J. grinned, and a part of Cyrus’s stomach twisted at the expression.  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you after the bell rings,” he said, lightly hitting Cyrus in the chest.  He smiled, then walked out of the boys’ bathroom, leaving a million questions whirling through Cyrus’s head.  

 _What does he mean by seeing me after the bell rings?  Does he mean at detention?_ Cyrus asked himself as he pushed open the boys’ bathroom door.

He watched the basketball player stroll away, his eyebrows drawn together as he wondered what T.J. had up his sleeve.  

He guessed he’d have to wait until the end of seventh period.

* * *

T.J. was not kidding when he said he’d be there after the bell rang.

After all his classmates rushed out like a powerful wind was sucking them out the door, Cyrus fiddled with his belongings, collecting them at his own leisure pace.  The hallways rattled with noise, and with the door closed and the classroom vacant, he felt like he was in his own little bubble, isolated from the world.

Mrs. Speck cleared her throat.  “Turn the lights off when you leave,” she reminded him, her voice pinched and clipped as she walked toward the exit.

Well, _almost_ isolated.

“Bye!” he farewelled, but the door flew open before she could leave, a tall boy in a basketball hoodie pounding through the entrance (and nearly bumping into her in the process).  Cyrus smiled familiarly, like he was used to occurrences like this, even though he so, so wasn’t.

He wondered if he ever would be.  Used to T.J. Kippen, he meant.

How could he get used to someone who was always surprising him?

“Hey,” T.J. said, tugging on his sleeves.  Mrs. Speck huffed, giving him a distasteful eyeful before she squeezed out through the door.  “You ready?”

Cyrus’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise.  This was _not_ what he had been expecting.  “ _Already_?  We’re not going to give them a head start or anything?”

T.J. snorted in amusement, and he shook his head.  “C’mon it won’t be so bad. Besides, sometimes you just have to dive in, Underdog,” he said.  

Cyrus shifted the shoulder strap of the backpack, his shoulder feeling tense from all the books stuffed in it.  “Are you—woah!” T.J. snatched his hand and dragged him out of the classroom door, plowing through the hallway.

* * *

He was holding Cyrus Goodman’s hand.

It was kind of a weird feeling.  Holding someone’s hand, that was.  T.J. was accustomed to high fives, the fleeting squeeze that came with bro hugs, but never _this_.  A palm clinging to his, their fingers clumsily tangled, wrists pressed together.

T.J. didn’t even know _why_ he grabbed it, anyway.  It just felt right.  A lot of things felt right with Cyrus.  

He weaved Cyrus strategically through the claustrophobic hallway, with kids bounding through the narrow corridor, lockers slamming, books slapping against the hard tiled floors, janitors bustling with their neon yellow carts, ready to start their shifts.  T.J. gave him an assuring glance as they were running, and a smile worked itself onto his mouth at the exhilarated expression sparking up Cyrus’s face. Cyrus could be so adorable sometimes.

T.J. pushed the thought aside and kept moving, hoping that if they moved fast enough, he could leave his thoughts behind altogether.  

“Is this what a police escort feels like?” Cyrus exclaimed aloud, his voice lighting up in wonderment, and T.J. couldn’t help but laugh, that familiar funny feeling coiling through his chest.  

T.J. wanted to take that feeling and shove it down until he couldn’t feel it anymore, until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

They cut through a hallway, a shortcut that T.J. knew by heart, with him still guiding Cyrus forward and Cyrus still blindly following him, like he trusted him to lead the way, to get him through the students and the slamming lockers and everything else that could possibly be in their path.

A horde of kids were circling them, staring at them like they were aliens from Mars, and T.J., for once, was able to shut them out.  

He almost expected his old friends to pop up, to make some kind of show about the whole ordeal, but he couldn’t really see anything except Cyrus trailing behind him, wearing a beam that lit up the entire hallway, like fairy lights.  Luckily all their peers were parting like the Red Sea for them anyway, so T.J. didn’t really need to do a whole lot of paying attention.

They finally reached Cyrus’s locker, locker 120, and Cyrus heaved against it, clearly out of breath from their adventure.  T.J.’s heart pounded, but he was sure it was because of a different reason than Cyrus’s was.

They were still holding hands.  And T.J. hated that he didn’t want to let go.

He was so used to shoving things down, keeping them at bay, but now they were bubbling up, and it was becoming harder and harder to fight off.  He just hated _thinking_ , hated thinking about the way his heart seemed to skip a beat every time Cyrus flashed a smile in his direction, hated thinking about that funny feeling constantly washing through him.  

T.J. wanted to shut his mind off, wanted it to go numb.  Wanted it all to go away.

Now he _really_ wished he could replace his brain…

“That was exhilarating!” Cyrus exclaimed, the same way he had that day at the swings.  It broke T.J. from his consuming thoughts, and he came back to himself, feeling around for the edges of reality.

Oh, right.  Cyrus’s hand.

“Yeah,” T.J. said, untangling their fingers.  Something clawed at his stomach, and T.J. stuffed his hands in his pockets to suppress the weird tingly sensation surging through his palm.  “See. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“You were right,” Cyrus admitted with a beam, poking at his lock.  He yanked it open after putting in his combination, the numbers on the dial all blurring together.  (T.J. didn’t even like to _think_ about how long it had taken him to learn his own combination.  Sometimes he _still_ had to pick the lock open.)

Cyrus’s locker was heavily decorated, and (not surprisingly) organized.  From what T.J. knew about the boy’s schedule, he had all his textbooks in order, and he also had a colorful array of pictures and magnets stuck to the locker door with a bunch of other memorabilia that T.J. didn’t understand (why did Cyrus have an old poster that said ‘Freedom of Dress’ on it?).  He noticed a blue artbox with a thick stack of folded papers stuck together by a paperclip beside it.

“Are those our notes?” T.J. asked, pointing at the pile.  He swept them in his palm.

Cyrus paused in the middle of sliding his science textbook onto his top shelf, his eyes flitting to what T.J. was talking about.  

“Oh, no, that’s—” T.J. unfurled one to see his and Cyrus’s handwriting, and he gave the other boy a pointed look.

Cyrus sighed.  “Yeah,” he admitted, his cheeks tinged a little pink.  A whirl went through T.J.’s chest, like someone was doing cartwheels in his ribcage.  “I keep them all,” he confessed sheepishly.

T.J. let a smile curve his mouth, unable to hold it back.  “I keep all of them, too.”

They shared a smile before Cyrus realized he still hadn’t put up his science book, and T.J. reached above him, pushing it into the slot for him.  “Here, I got it.”

Cyrus stepped away, a soft smile on his face.  “Thanks!”

“Anytime,” he said, just like he did on Tuesday.  Cyrus seemed to recognize the line, and he playfully nudged T.J. as they began to stroll down the now vacant hallway, everyone else already having had fled outside for the buses or for sports practice.

“Do we have time to stop by your locker?” Cyrus asked.  They bumped into each other every few steps or so, and every time the contact would jostle something in T.J.’s chest.

T.J. shook his head.  “Nah,” he said, giving a shrug.  “We’ll be late to detention if we do.  I can go after.”

For the first time since the bell rang, it seemed to click in Cyrus’s mind that they still had detention, and his eyes widened in realization.  “We better hurry up!” the boy said hurriedly, shifting his backpack anxiously. “We _can’t_ be late.”

T.J. laughed good-naturedly, something that a few weeks ago would’ve been hard to draw out of him.  “I don’t think—” but then Cyrus was grabbing _his_ hand, dragging him all the way to room 34.

And T.J. didn’t let himself think.  He just let Cyrus tug him in whatever direction, knowing if he let his thoughts run, they would never stop.

* * *

They arrived at detention, and T.J. didn’t even have to look at the clock to know they were late.  

When they rushed through the door, Cyrus was practically a heaving puddle, and T.J had to fish out an inhaler out of Cyrus’s backpack (the boy didn’t end up needing it, but it made Cyrus feel better knowing he had it curled in his palm, T.J. guessed).  None of this mattered to Dr. Metcalf, however, who told them to take their seats with his usual incisive glance, the one that made fire bubble in T.J.’s chest.

“Do you two even know when detention starts?” their principal asked sarcastically.  Neither of them answered him; T.J. didn’t see why he should even bother. As far as T.J. was concerned, he could hang the moon and Metcalf would still give him that same cold, hard look in his eyes, like he was a delinquent at heart.  Just like he had two weeks ago, the day he had handed him those six days of detention…

T.J. shook the memory out of his mind, instead boring his eyes into the notebook paper Cyrus had placed on his desk.  Keeping a wary glance on Dr. Metcalf (who was signing what looked like important documents with one of those professional ink pens that CEOs used), he unfolded it, his eyes trailing the other boy’s words.

_I know we haven’t really talked about this since Monday, but what are you going to do about your math thing?_

T.J. noticed the careful way he had written ‘math thing’, trying his best not to use the term ‘dyscalculia’ or ‘learning disability’, even though they both knew he probably had one.  

He pulled a pen from his pocket, scribbling back a reply.  He wanted to hand it to Cyrus immediately (T.J. had never had good patience skills), but he knew they had to be more careful.  Ever since Dr. Metcalf had called them into his office on Monday, he’d been far more observant of the two, and they had to be quick to pass notes back and forth, even if it took a while to get a response.

After about ten minutes of torturous staring, Dr. Metcalf dipped down his head to sign something, and T.J. swiveled the note over to Cyrus’s desk.

_I don’t know.  I don’t know if I want to talk to Mr. Coleman yet._

T.J. didn’t know _why_ he was so hesitant to tell Mr. C.  It wasn’t like he was in denial or anything; he trusted Cyrus, and he knew Cyrus wouldn’t have even brought the whole learning disability thing to his attention if there wasn’t a huge possibility.  And basketball season had just ended, so it wasn’t like he could get kicked off the team for having one.  (Could they actually do that? Kick him off the team for having a learning disability? Knowing Dr. Metcalf, probably.)  

Maybe he just didn’t want Mr. Coleman to look at him again with that same dispirited gleam in his eyes.  Like T.J. had scored far below all the expectations waiting for him as soon as he entered his classroom. And this one he couldn’t even _help_.  

T.J. was even a disappointment on accident.  Figures.

It was probably dumb for him to care about something like that, or to care about it at all, but Cyrus was making him care about a lot of things.  A lot of things T.J. never thought he would. Or would want to, even.

After another painfully long interval of time, Cyrus passed the note back to him, and T.J. tried to shake the thoughts from his mind.

_How come?  I could come with you if you want._

Something in his heart twisted at the thought of that.  He ignored it and wrote out a reply, clicking his pen impatiently while he waited for Dr. Metcalf to stop watching them.

The principal dropped a paper, ducking down to retrieve it, and T.J. flicked the note over to Cyrus.

_I don’t know.  I would rather him just think I’m stupid._

When Cyrus read it, he shot him a confused glance, one that made his eyebrows draw together and his lips purse, like he was trying to understand an unsolvable problem, and he quickly scribbled back a reply.

_T.J., you’re not stupid.  There is nothing wrong with you._

That funny feeling swept through him again, churning so hard that T.J. couldn’t turn a blind eye to it.  The scary thing was, Cyrus’s words went farther than his math issues, piercing that part of him that he didn’t like to dwell on.  The part he wished would disappear.  

He swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, pressing down so hard that his pen punctured the paper.

_Maybe I’ll tell him.  We’ll see._

Then, on the line below, he added, _So, if I’m talking about this, you have to tell me about what happened at the Red Rooster._

T.J. tapped his pen against the paper impatiently, waiting for Dr. Metcalf’s attention to be captured again so he could pass the note to Cyrus.  After what felt like _eons_ of just sitting there, Dr. Metcalf’s voice boomed, “It’s five minutes after four.  You can go.”

T.J.’s head shot to the clock.   _There’s no way…_

The clock on the wall read 4:05, just like their principal had said, and he bit back the curse brewing on his tongue.

Metcalf stood up, shooing them out.  “I said, _‘go’_.  You’re not the only ones that have lives outside of this school building,” he said, his face hard as he plucked up his briefcase.  Cyrus and T.J. jolted out of their seats at their principal’s instruction, with Cyrus bustling through the exit as if he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  T.J. considered taking his time, just to spite Dr. Metcalf, but he wanted to catch Cyrus before he left.

“Hey,” he called out, striding beside him.  Cyrus slowed his pace, flashing T.J. a smile that made him feel weak in his knees, and T.J. knocked their shoulders together as he caught up to him.  “I wanted to ask you something. Walk to my locker with me?”

“Sure,” Cyrus said, seeming happily surprised.  

They strolled for a few steps before Cyrus spoke again.  “What’s your question?” Cyrus questioned curiously, his eyes bright with wonderment.  T.J. didn’t know why he kept noticing things like that, like how the light would catch Cyrus’s hair sometimes, making it look lighter than it was, or how his lips would purse together when he was thinking hard about something, but it was like he was collecting all these little details, tucking them into the corners of his mind.

T.J. didn’t know what he was saving them all for, but he liked to run them through his mind before he went to bed.  Just so they’d stick.

“How come you ran out of the Red Rooster on Tuesday?” T.J. asked, pausing in the hallway.  Cyrus halted with him, facing him in the middle of the corridor.

T.J. saw the hesitance resting in the grooves of his face, the faltering look gleaming in his eyes, and he gave him a reassuring smile.  “Hey, you don’t have to tell me. I was just wondering,” he tried, reaching out and squeezing Cyrus’s shoulder. T.J. was pretty sure it had more of an effect on him than it did on Cyrus.

Cyrus resumed their walking, silence filling their ears for a beat before Cyrus spoke.  “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to tell you.  It’s just…it’s a part of my stuff,” he explained, like T.J. was supposed to understand what that meant.

“Your stuff?” he asked, light confusion lacing his voice.  

“Yeah.  Don’t you have stuff?” Cyrus asked him.  

 _I have more than I’d like to._ “Yeah,” T.J. said instead.  The words felt like sandpaper on his tongue.  “I’ve got stuff.”

 

He finally realized that they had reached his locker, momentarily forgetting that they weren’t just rambling aimlessly, and he fiddled with his lock.  Cyrus’s eyes felt heavy on him as he tried to concentrate on opening it, but the numbers were a blurry haze. T.J. yanked at it once, to no avail, and tried again.

 _Why do numbers have to follow me wherever I go?_ T.J. asked himself, annoyed.  

He forced it open on the second try, and Cyrus’s eyes raked through the interior of his locker, his eyebrows tweaking together like a light bulb had gone off in his brain.  Then, without warning, he asked softly, “Is math part of your stuff?”

T.J.’s paused, and he turned to meet Cyrus’s blunt gaze, his unabashed curiosity.  His heart pounded.

“Part of it,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth dipping down.  T.J. didn’t even know what the other part of his stuff was exactly, just that it was there and it was _consuming_ , taking up so much space that he didn’t know what to do with it.

T.J. met his gaze, his eyes latching onto Cyrus’s, and he tried not to drown in them.

He was already drowning anyway, drowning in all of his issues, his insecurities, his feelings.  And Cyrus washed all of his _stuff_ away, like a sponge wiping out the black grime crowding his mind.  A clean slate.

T.J. forced himself to look away first, not quite sure what he’d do if he didn’t.

“Hey, T.J., is that Dr. Metcalf?” Cyrus asked, his voice sounding unnaturally high-pitched.  He pointed in a random direction behind T.J.

T.J. snorted, then turned behind him.  Of _course_ Cyrus would want to be as far away from Dr. Metcalf as possible.  

“Where?” he asked, looking in the area Cyrus was pointing at.  He didn’t see anything but more lockers and a gleaming floor, like someone had recently mopped it.

Confusion sweeping through him, T.J. turned back to face Cyrus, who was awkwardly holding something behind his back.  He looked suspicious, as if he were hiding evidence from a crime scene.

“What’s that you got there, Cyrus?” he inquired, amused, an eyebrow raised.  

“No-nothing!” Cyrus stuttered unconvincingly.  He pressed himself against the lockers behind him, and T.J. knew he could easily find out what he was hiding if he wanted to, could try and reach around his back, but he wasn’t sure what such close proximity would do to his brain.

Probably melt it.  He decided to let it go.

“Okay, well, see you later, Underdog,” he farewelled, mirth still dancing in his eyes.  

“Bye, T.J.!”

T.J. smiled to himself as he walked all the way home.   _Note to self,_ he thought, adding something to his mental list.   _Cyrus Goodman is a terrible liar._

* * *

Cyrus wiped invisible beads of sweat from his brow as he entered his bedroom, the events from T.J.’s locker whirling back into his head with a dull ache.   _That was a close one!_

He unloaded the heavy item from his backpack and dropped it on his desk with a loud _thump_ , the object staring glaringly at Cyrus: T.J.’s math textbook.

Cyrus could admit, it was an impulsive decision to steal T.J.’s algebra book, but it was just _sitting_ there, waiting to be stolen!  If he hadn’t done it, then someone else would’ve!

He knew that was a complete lie, but he let himself believe it, just to lessen the pit of guilt sitting in his chest.  

T.J.’s notes from detention rolled back into his head, and Cyrus frowned as the memory of them hit him again.  T.J. seemed so _helpless_ , like nothing he could do would fix his trouble with math.  Maybe Cyrus wanted to remind him that he could still do it, could still _try_ and not have to fail, that this wasn’t worth replacing his brain over.  That he was no different.

Cyrus knew what being different was like.  He didn’t want T.J. to feel that way. Not ever.

He took out several stacks of different colored Post-It notes and unsheathed his favorite blue pen from his pencil case, flipping open to the first page of the basketball player's math textbook.   _Here goes nothing..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment below! Let us know what you thought! 💕


	7. Let Us Be Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuously reading and leaving comments for us! We look forward to that every week! Just a heads up, I don't know if Di and I will be able to update next week because I will be going on a trip for spring break and Di has a lot of testing. Anyway, please check out Di's art for this chapter [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/183667047099/the-notes-we-write-chapter-7-written-by).

“From the top!” Amber called out, her hand hovering over the boombox.  Cyrus groaned mid-heave, his lungs aching in his chest. Had he ever mentioned that he hated dance class?  

Mondays were a blessing and a curse.  A curse because one of his first periods of the day was spent cracking his bones and straining his muscles after lounging around the house and making frequent visits to The Spoon all weekend.  And (thankfully) a blessing because it meant detention, which meant spending time with T.J. Mondays and Fridays in detention were the best, even if he  _was_ stuck in a room with Dr. Metcalf for an hour after school.  Lately he didn’t mind, though. A lot of the time T.J. made his fears float away, like they weren’t even there at all.

Cyrus fumbled through the dance routine, trying his best to get down all the movements, but even that didn’t feel like enough.  (He didn’t ever  _dance_.  Dancing is what Amber did, light and graceful on her feet, all fluid movements.  He was all waving arms and pointed limbs, clumsy gestures. Cyrus  _still_ didn’t know how he was passing this class.)  He was starting to feel discouraged, like he’d never understand  _whatever_ it was that Amber had shown him moments prior, and he paused the music, his lungs burning like sizzling irons in his chest.

“I need to take a break,” he complained, almost wheezing.  He coughed (maybe a  _tad_ dramatically, but he wasn’t going to give himself away!).  Amber playfully rolled her eyes in response, a smile on her face.  She was so far from the girl he’d known from seventh grade. The  _old_ Amber would’ve laughed dryly in his face, made a heartless comment about how clumsy he was.  She wouldn’t have even offered to help him in the first place.

Cyrus liked this Amber  _much_ better.

“Again?  You only have one week until your dance exam, Cyrus!” she exclaimed exasperatedly.

“Easy for  _you_ to say!” Cyrus retorted.  His voice was on the verge of whining, but he didn’t really care at the moment.  “You’ve been doing this since you could  _walk_.  This is the same guy who can only do the first half of a push-up, remember?”

Amber just shook her head to herself, choosing not to argue with him.  Cyrus was grateful for her lack of berating, and he leaned against one of the balance beams used for gymnastics in order to catch his breath.  

Just as he went to tell Amber that they could run it from the top again (with a reluctant sigh, he might add; hey, if he had to endure it, he was going to make it as miserable as he could for the  _both_ of them!), a figure out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, causing him to startle in surprise.  

_T.J.?_

Cyrus didn’t even know why he bothered to be shocked anymore.  T.J. would show up in random places, always when he least expected it, every time he hadn’t drummed up any sort of preparedness beforehand.  T.J. had somehow intertwined himself so deeply within the grooves of his life that Cyrus didn’t think he could ever be removed. Not that he  _wanted_ him to be, obviously.

The transition of his life from before he met T.J. to after was so seamless, so natural, that it was like slotting in a missing puzzle piece, no remnant of it ever being gone in the first place.  Cyrus had always known something was absent, not completely there, and now that it had interlocked with the rest, it felt...complete. And, sure, maybe some pieces were tattered and beaten, something he couldn’t mend for a change, but so was he!  Cyrus was torn at the seams, frayed. Broken.

Weren’t they both?

Maybe Cyrus was tired of perfect.  Just a little bit.

“T.J.  What are you doing here?”  he asked with a soft smile, standing up to meet the basketball player.  His eyebrows knitted together. “Don’t you have class?”

T.J. let that endearing huff out of his nose that Cyrus had grown accustomed to, and he shook his head slightly, as if he were amused by the question.  “I told Ms. Bender that I felt sick and she just let me leave,” T.J. explained, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Cyrus would  _never_  try anything like that, even though Ms. Bender was a notorious germaphobe and would throw sick students out of the school permanently if she had the chance.  (Cyrus had recommended that she talk to one of his shrink parents once and she declined, offended, and had been especially pinched to him since.) The fact that T.J. had the guts to do something like that was pretty cool.  He wondered if any of T.J.’s confidence would  _ever_  rub off on him.  

Cyrus could feel Amber’s questioning gaze prodding splintering stakes into his back as he replied. “Why are you here, though?” he asked, hurriedly adding, “Not that I’m mad about it or anything.”

T.J. snorted again, and something unidentifiable rolled in Cyrus’s stomach, like a small stone playing hopscotch in his belly.  “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out after school on Wednesday.”

The fact that T.J. had ditched class just to ask him to hang out heightened that feeling, like it was spreading from his stomach to his toes, making him as light as air.  Cyrus didn’t know if he had ever been so  _flattered_!  T.J. probably skipped class all the time, at least more frequently than he should’ve, but his stomach remained doing a happy jig nevertheless.   

“And you couldn’t have waited until later to ask me?” Cyrus asked incredulously, but his voice was teasing and T.J. was smiling right back.

“It was only history and I wanted to get out of there, anyway,” T.J. lightly defended with a shrug, crossing over from the entrance to lean against the beam across from Cyrus.  A bubble of doubt seeped into his chest; history was T.J.’s favorite subject; why would he want to skip?

Confused, Cyrus tried to shake the alluring fog of curiosity from his mind.  He was probably reading into things too much,  _as_ usual.

“Besides,” T.J. continued, an entertained beam adorning his face, “maybe I wanted to see what dance class is like.  You make it sound like a torture chamber,” T.J. said, snorting.

“It  _is_ a torture chamber!” Cyrus insisted, jumping up.  The comment earned an eyebrow raise and a small laugh from Amber, who he had forgotten was in the room with them.   _Whoops!_  “This week I have to choreograph a dance  _and_ perform it in front of the whole class for my third term final!” he rambled exasperatedly.  He let out a groan, collapsing defeatedly against the balance beam, and a flash of an endearing smile crossed T.J.’s face.  It was so fleeting that Cyrus wondered if he was even supposed to see it.

“Hey, you’ll do great,” T.J. promised, lightly nudging him with his shoulder.  Cyrus’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Plus we get an entire week of spring break after Friday, so you can take a break from dance class for a while,” the basketball player reminded him.  Cyrus had nearly forgotten about that! There T.J. went, making him feel better again. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last (well, at least Cyrus  _hoped_ that was the case).

He heard Amber tiptoe over without even having to glance behind him. “Come on, slowpoke,” she teased, jabbing him in the side.  Cyrus groaned again and sat up begrudgingly.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll do it, but you owe me a basket of baby taters,” he said in a warning tone.  

Amber rolled her eyes, shaking her head to herself.  “I’m the one helping  _you_!”

They bantered back and forth until Amber finally convinced him to run through the routine, to which Cyrus reluctantly agreed.  His eyes flickered nervously to T.J., who shot him a reassuring glance in return. He could practically hear T.J.’s words in his mind:  _Come on, Underdog.  You can do this. I know you can._

Cyrus took a deep breath, pressing play on the CD player.

* * *

T.J. was pretty sure he was dying.  Well, at least a part of him was. He knew that for sure.

He meant, yeah, Amber, the blonde girl helping him with the dance, obviously knew the routine better than Cyrus did, and she didn’t stumble nearly as often, either, but the movements screamed  _Cyrus_ at the core.  All the random twists and showy hands and plain  _cheesiness_ of some of the dance moves?  Definitely Cyrus.

It was all so adorable that T.J. couldn’t help but laugh a little to himself.

There was that word again.   _Adorable._ It just kept blinking on like a neon sign when T.J. was around him, searing his brain every time it popped into his mind.  He was still learning how to figure out how to shut his head up when it did that, when it would just say words that were bubbling in his chest.

He didn’t know if he was doing such a good job or not.

The music shut off with an abrupt hit of the boombox, T.J. couldn’t help the amused smile ghosting his lips as Cyrus turned to face him, the boy’s eyebrows drawn together in worry.  “Were you laughing? Was I  _that_ bad?”  Cyrus asked.  T.J. thought about stepping forward and smoothing down the line between Cyrus’s brow until all the anxiety drained from his face.

“No, of course not!” T.J. defended truthfully, still smiling.   _God_ , did he have no control over his emotions anymore?  “I liked it. It was cute,” he admitted. And there he went again, throwing around words without registering what he was saying.  It kind of reminded him of when he was angry, how things would just spill from his mouth without him having to think twice, except now he was saying very,  _very_ stupid things instead of mean ones.

T.J. internally rolled his eyes at himself, his familiar mantra running through his head.   _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ It was the only voice in his head that T.J. didn’t bother quieting; maybe because a small part of him still believed it.

That was changing, though.  Cyrus was changing a lot of things, it seemed.  

“Thanks,” Cyrus said, a small beam fixing itself on his face.  Something curled in T.J.’s stomach. “And, by the way, I  _can_ hang out on Wednesday,” he affirmed with a smile.  

T.J. reached forward and squeezed the other boy’s shoulder.  Cyrus’s shirt was a little damp from his profuse sweating, but T.J. didn’t mind.  Not really. “Cool,” he replied with a beam of his own.  Then, without a second glance, T.J. was bounding out of the dance room, slipping through the locker room entrance.

* * *

Once T.J. exited through the door, Cyrus bounced on the backs of his heels, feeling his excitement burst through him like a wave of meteors erupting in his chest.  He was going to hang out with T.J. Kippen on Wednesday!

What were they going to do?  Go to his house? The aquarium, the zoo, The Spoon?  The possibilities were endless!

Cyrus really wished he weren’t hiding this huge secret from Buffy and Andi at that moment; who else would let him gush about it all?

He took a careful sip of his water bottle, a smile still curving his mouth, and he jumped as Amber snuck up behind him.

“You’re friends with  _T.J. Kippen_?” she burst, her voice a mix accusatory and incredulous.  The water caught in his windpipe and he choked, coughing into his elbow.  

“Warn a guy before sneaking up on him!” Cyrus said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Amber ignored him.  “Isn’t he, like, one of those mean guys on the basketball team?” she asked, judgement lining her tone.  Cyrus was surprised that she knew of him, especially since she went to Grant and not Jefferson, but, then again, she had several ties to the middle school.  She probably knew about a lot of people just from talking to Jonah and Andi.

“You used to be a mean girl, too, you know,” he said, giving her a pointed glance.  Her face shifted into a softer look. “Besides, he didn’t seem that mean to you, did he?”

Amber sighed.  “Fine, I guess you have a point,” she said, giving in.  Cyrus smiled. He didn’t know why he sought approval for his relationship with T.J.  Maybe he just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination. A false lens of his reality.  

“And, by the way, can you not tell Buffy and Andi?  You know, about...T.J. and me?” he asked, a hopeful lilt to his voice.  His tone caught her attention, and her eyebrows tweaked together curiously.

“How come?” Amber asked, tilting her head in question.

“I just….” Cyrus trailed off.  Why was he keeping this from them again?  He meant, yeah, he didn’t want Andi and Buffy to keep teasing him about T.J. (they were already doing that enough about his ‘detention buddy’, and Cyrus hadn’t even revealed his  _identity_ yet), but was it worth all the obstacles that seemed adamant on stumbling into his path?  “I just want to tell them myself,” Cyrus finished lamely.

Amber nodded, her eyes almost mischievous in the glint of the overhead lights, and she smiled.  “No prob! I can keep a secret,” the girl promised. She hurled a towel around his neck, sashaying away. “Anyway, hurry up.  We’ll run through it again in five!”

Waving the thoughts from his mind, Cyrus groaned to himself, his muscles prickling with stiffness just at the mention of dancing again.   _This is going to be a_ long  _morning._

* * *

The bell rang soon enough, and Cyrus was out the door, skipping into the locker room to change back into his normal attire.  He pushed the door open, his arms weighing down at his sides like lead, and he wrinkled his nose as the stench of dirty socks filled his lungs.  

 _Typical boys’ PE locker room fashion_ , he thought, rolling his eyes good-naturedly to himself.  Sometimes he  _really_ wished they’d accepted his proposal of separate locker rooms.  (The school board had laughed in his face.  Literally!)

He fiddled with the combination, jerking the locker open, only to find a single strip of paper resting on the top of his neatly folded clothes.  

_Don’t worry about dance class.  You can do it, I promise. -T.J._

Cyrus wasn’t even sure  _how_ T.J. knew which locker was his, but T.J. always seemed to commit everything to memory.  He even knew things that Cyrus didn’t even remember telling him!  Weird, right?  Who knew someone could actually pay attention to Cyrus so much?

He changed quickly in an empty stall, paranoid that someone would walk in on him otherwise.  Then he gathered his gym clothes, tucked them tidily into his narrow locker space, and smiled admiringly down at T.J.’s note again.   _I’ll have to write him back after class_ , he noted silently to himself.

Just as he went to slide the paper into his pocket, footsteps pounded outside of the door, and someone pushed through the entrance.  A swell of panic rose in Cyrus’s throat as he recognized the figure.

 _Reed_.

Cyrus’s stomach turned. _Please let him not see me,_ Cyrus silently pleaded (which was  _impossible_ since they were the only two in the locker room.  But, still, a boy could dream). He wished he could back up into the corner of the locker room, but his feet were frozen to the ground.  

Reed wasn’t necessarily a  _bully_ ; at least, not by conventional standards.  He was one of the guys on the basketball team that liked to poke fun of him, liked to laugh when Cyrus tripped in the hallway, as if it were his duty to make Cyrus feel unwelcome as he could.  Cyrus thought he’d rather be invisible than be noticed, at least when Reed was around. It was like the boy had X-ray vision, able to see all his underlying insecurities and twist them to his own advantage.

So, naturally, he scared Cyrus.  Just like Dr. Metcalf. Cyrus thought he might choose Dr. Metcalf over Reed if it ever came down to it.  He hoped he  _never_  had to make a decision like that in his life.

“Hey, Goodman,” Reed said.  His voice would’ve sounded casual to an outsider, friendly even, but Cyrus detected a hint of a mocking note in his tone.  His voice disappeared into his chest. “Whatcha got there?”

Reed’s eyes flickered down to the note in his hands and, before Cyrus could even blink, the boy snatched it out of Cyrus’s grip, nearly ripping it in the process.  Reed smoothed out the edges, his eyes trailing the words on the paper, and T.J’s words flashed back into Cyrus’s mind.  _You can do it, I promise._

“Hey, give it back!” Cyrus said, his voice rising back up in his throat.  He wasn’t sure what came over him, but the solid block of fear lodged in his throat seemed to soften.  Not entire gone, but just...smaller. Like a melting ice cube.

Reed held it back from his reach, his face twisting into a sneer, and his eyebrows jumped.  “Oh, so you’re who Kippen’s been hanging out with, huh?” Reed asked, his brow arched challengingly.  Cyrus stood there, frozen, not quite sure how to retort. “I mean, I’m not really surprised, especially after what he did a few weeks ago.”  He smirked at Cyrus like he had a piece of vital information, dangling it like a carrot over his head. Cyrus’s mind was whirling, spinning so fast that the walls in the locker room almost seemed to be crumpling inward.  

“What do you—” but before he could even form a coherent thought, Reed was crumpling the note and tossing it on the floor with one last searing sneer, branding Cyrus’s brain with its contorted imprint.  

“Anyway, I gotta go do some real sports.  Have fun with dance class,” he added with an almost taunting laugh.  Just as the boy turned away, Cyrus caught the faint shadow of a dark circle around his eye.  It could’ve been a trick of the light, or maybe even his mind playing a joke on him, but something bubbled in his stomach that told him otherwise.

Once Reed left, he was alone again, silence filling the locker room.  But his head was full of noise, questions pouring into him until he couldn’t remember his name.   _What was that about?_

He gathered the rest of his belongings, the chill of uncertainty hanging like pointed icicles in the air, and he pushed himself out the door, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, and, even more so, the confusion rising up in his chest.  

What had Reed meant?  And, more importantly, what had T.J. done a few weeks ago that Reed made sound so bad?  

He tried to shake off the nagging feeling clinging to him, the alarm bells in his head warning him that something was off about the entire exchange, but Cyrus pushed it to the side.  T.J. would explain everything! Maybe it was just some misunderstanding!

Cyrus walked to his next period, struggling to brush the spooky encounter from his mind.  

* * *

_So, what exactly are we doing on Wednesday?  Anything specific in mind? -Cyrus_

* * *

By the time lunch rolled around, the exchange between him and Reed was far from his mind, the five-page essay assigned in English and their upcoming history test crowding his head instead.  He sat down at their usual lunch table in a whirl, mentally writing down his introductory paragraph as he took a bite of his cookie. It took a blinding couple of seconds to register that Jonah and Andi were fighting, and once it did, Cyrus wished he could crawl into a hole and hide.

“Jonah, I can’t  _believe_ you actually wrote that song for me!” Andi burst, all the light drained from her face.  

 _Looks like the honeymoon phase of their on-again-off-again relationship is over,_ Cyrus thought silently to himself.  He bit his lip, trying to avoid eye contact with either of the couple.  

“I don’t understand why you’re upset!” Jonah replied, his eyebrows drawn together.  Cyrus and Buffy shared a glance across the table, and she didn’t even have to speak for Cyrus to know the word ringing in her head:  _Yikes._ Cyrus agreed wholeheartedly.  

In fact, the whole argument felt like a slap in the face, a bucket of ice cold water being poured over his head.  It was reiterating the events of what had happened that day in the Red Rooster, how hurt he’d been…

Cyrus internally sighed.  He wished he weren’t so distraught over a stupid song, but his heart didn’t seem like it would get over it any time soon.

“ _Because_ ,” she huffed, crossing her arms, “you wrote an insensitive song!  About me!” Cyrus stomach turned as he watched the situation unfold like a piece of paper.  Except that the paper was on fire, and it was rapidly turning into ashes before everyone’s eyes.

Jonah’s face twisted in confusion.  Cyrus silently wondered if he could make any other face besides ‘cute puppy’ and ‘confused teenage boy’.  “Cyrus listened to it last week and he said it was great!” Jonah defended, jabbing a finger towards him. Cyrus felt a stab in his chest.  Why did he always have to be dragged into this stuff when he was trying not to be!

Andi looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Cyrus to side with her, and his eyes flickered back and forth between the two.  How could he side with either of them when he didn’t even  _remember_ the words to the song?  Because he had been so wrapped up in the ‘romance’ and the ‘  _Jonah Beck_ ’ of it all that all of the words had blurred together into a steady hum?  How could he explain that?

Well, he  _couldn’t_ explain.  At least not without outing his feelings to both Jonah and Andi.  And that was the  _last_ thing he wanted.

“I thought it was a nice gesture!” Cyrus offered, and a flicker of betrayal crossed Andi’s face, hurt and anger sharpening her features.

“Well, it wasn’t,” she burst, and in a whirl the girl was picking up her lunch tray and fleeing the table, stomping through the exit.  Buffy rolled her eyes at Jonah and gave Cyrus a sympathetic half-smile before jumping up from her seat, racing after her best friend. The three boys were left with the atmosphere hanging heavily in the air, the tension as tangible as the cracked laminate on the tables, and Marty pushed himself off the bench.

“I have to go to the, uh...the bathroom,” the runner excused, hopping up from the table.  Cyrus suspected that he just wanted to leave behind the thick air behind, and he couldn’t blame him.  Cyrus would leave if he could, too.

Because he was stuck with Jonah alone.  And for once he wished that he wasn’t.

Not missing a beat, Jonah asked, “Dude, what do I do?” An edge of panic stuck out of his voice like a pointed needle, and Cyrus tried to coax him before the Frisbee player could stumble into a panic attack.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said soothingly.  He placed a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Maybe you could rewrite it?” Cyrus offered.  “What part made her upset, anyway?”

“I don’t know!” Jonah exclaimed, worry filling his face.  “Help me!”

The bell rang, and Cyrus (relieved, as selfish as it sounded) shot up from his seat, grabbing the worn plastic of his lunch tray.  “I…,” he faltered, searching for a solution. A light bulb went off in his brain. “Meet me after class, okay? We can brainstorm then,” he said.  

Jonah nodded, seeming to understand.  “Thanks, man.”

“No problem!” Cyrus said.  A lie. A painful, scorching lie.

He whisked himself off to class, racking his brain to fix the current situation at hand.  At times like these, it was hard for Cyrus remember why he still harbored his feelings for Jonah, why he didn’t just let them go like balled up string.  It was just so  _hard_ , so unnecessarily, unbelievably difficult to always cater to Jonah’s needs sometimes.

He felt horrible for thinking it and brushed the thought aside.  He better get to math class before Mr. Coleman counted him tardy…

* * *

_Just chilling.  We might go the park or something, I’m not sure yet.  -T.J._

* * *

Sometimes it was really hard to get his stuff for class, put a note in Cyrus’s locker,  _and_ get to his next period on time within a four minute passing interval.

Oh well, T.J. didn’t really care about being late.  What were they going to do to him for being tardy, anyway?  Give him detention?

He smiled mirthfully to himself.  Oh, what a severe punishment that was turning out to be.  Dr. Metcalf  _really_ got him there.  

T.J. stopped quickly by his locker, his math book still glaringly absent from his shelf.  (Mr. Coleman had berated him in front of the entire class for forgetting it; how unfair was  _that_?  It wasn’t like _he_ could’ve misplaced it.  His textbook never left his locker except for 4th period algebra).  He snatched his English textbook and slammed the door shut, bounding over to Cyrus’s locker.  

He halted as he neared locker 120, almost rolling his eyes to himself.  Why was Jonah Beck in front of it again?  Was he Cyrus’s bodyguard or something?

The Frisbee player was standing impatiently at the foot of the locker bay, his hands stuffed into fraying jeans pockets and his feet tapping rapidly, like a song was trying to escape from his body.  T.J. sighed. Why was the world working against him today?

He waltzed up to Jonah, raising his eyebrows at him expectantly.  The boy was all fidgety, like a million strings were all tugging at him in different directions.  T.J. could relate to  _that_ feeling.  He wished he didn’t.  

“So, you’re Cyrus’s detention buddy?” Jonah asked.  The question took T.J. by surprise; he didn’t expect the Frisbee player to strike up a conversation, let alone one about  _Cyrus_.

T.J. huffed out an amused breath through his nose, an unexpected smile reaching his face.  “Is that what he refers to me as?” he questioned, sliding the note into Cyrus’s locker. He heard it rustle for a few seconds, then land with a soft crinkle.  

“Yeah, actually,” Jonah admitted with a smile.  T.J. was surprised by that, too; the last time they’d been in this similar tableau, Jonah was shaken, almost  _scared_ by him.  T.J. considered this a vast improvement.  “He’s kind of weird like that,” he explained.  A tug of defensiveness pulled at T.J., yanking in his chest, but he got the feeling that Jonah meant weird in a good way.

“Nah, it’s fine,” T.J. replied before he could stop himself.  “It’s cute.” And there was that word again, filling his mouth without him having to think about it.  What was  _wrong_ with him today?

What was wrong with him, period?

There were  _lots_ of things wrong with him, T.J. decided.  Things that he didn’t entirely understand, that he didn’t  _want_ to understand.  It was uncharted territory that T.J. did  _not_ want to explore.  He’d rather keep everything at bay until his emotions exploded, poured out of him like a waterfall.

Expressing his feelings had never been T.J.’s strong suit.

“I think it’s cool that you guys are friends,” Jonah continued, that smile still stuck to his face like masking tape.  T.J. wondered if he painted it on like clown makeup every morning.  He didn’t think Jonah Beck was capable of frowning, anyway; his lips weren’t trained to dip down below his dimples.  “I mean, I was a little unsure at first since Cyrus asked me not to tell Buffy and Andi—”

“Tell them what?” T.J. interrupted.  His brow drew together in confusion.

“That you guys are hanging out or whatever,” Jonah supplied with a shrug that indicated he didn’t realize the weight of his words.  Knives felt like they were wedged between the gaps of his ribs, ready to puncture him with one wrong twist.  _Cyrus doesn’t want his friends knowing we’re hanging out?_

His heart turned hard, his valves doused in a coat of black tar.  Of  _course_ Cyrus wouldn’t want his best friends to know that he was talking to some stupid scary basketball jock.  Could T.J. really blame him?

The bell rang, and T.J. turned so hard on his heels that sharp pains shot through his feet.  He trudged to class with another chip on his shoulder, trying not to push everything defiantly out of his way.  Even  _Cyrus_ saw that something was wrong with him.  The one person who he thought didn’t.

That funny feeling that was constantly thrumming through him vanished, only leaving a sour one in its place.

* * *

The rest of the day was miserable.  As far as T.J. was concerned, a black hole could’ve came and sucked them all up, and then everyone could feel as empty and hollow as he did.  Could’ve felt like  _nothing_.  

Maybe he’d prefer it that way.  At least then he wouldn’t feel as alone as he did right now.

When he reached detention, he could feel the skin of his old self creeping back in on him, and he didn’t even care enough to shake it off.  T.J. sat in his seat, his shoulders hunched so tensely together that an innocent bystander would’ve thought someone was pointing a knife to his back, and he ripped his math homework out of his folder, trying to make sense of the numbers floating around on the page.  After a few seconds of agonizing concentration, T.J. tossed it to the side in frustration, shoving it under his binder. God, why was everything in his  _way_?  He wished he could plow through all these obstacles like he did on Friday, when he was dragging Cyrus through the hallway—

No.  He shouldn’t think about Cyrus.  

He shouldn’t think at all.

He heard Cyrus waltz in, quickly followed by Dr. Metcalf, and T.J. didn’t even glance over, kept his eyes bored to his desk.  He didn’t know what he’d do if he met either of their gazes; he’d probably lash out at Dr. Metcalf, curse until his voice was zapped, and with Cyrus?  

God, he’d probably let Cyrus talk himself out of his anger.  T.J. knew he would.

Dr. Metcalf announced the beginning of detention in his usual sarcastic drawl, and T.J. could hear the scratching of Cyrus’s pen out of his left ear.  He allowed himself to peek at Cyrus out of the corner of his eye, and he clenched his jaw. He looked so  _unaware_ , like his usual happy self, and something in T.J.’s chest sparked, fire catching on fresh flint.  How could Cyrus not  _know_?

Then again, the more T.J. thought about it, Jonah Beck was kind of like an oblivious golden retriever.  He doubted he had even told Cyrus about their encounter.

 _Why am I making excuses for Cyrus?_ T.J. wondered, rolling his eyes at himself.  

That was the thing.  He didn’t  _know_ why.  And a little voice in the back of his mind told him he’d do it a million times over, until his brain melted from granting a pass to every small mishap.  

T.J. shoved that voice away.

He heard a faint tap on his desk, a piece of paper that clearly had lots of writing on it appearing on the corner.  Despite the fire coiling in his chest, T.J. unfolded the note, his eyes trailing the words scribbled on its surface.

_Sorry I’m a little late!  Jonah dragged me into his relationship problems (again) and I had to help him smooth things over with my best friend Andi.  So far it’s been a pretty hectic day (if hectic was an understatement!). How has yours been? -Cyrus_

The mention of Jonah and Andi ( _his best friend_ , T.J. noted bitterly) only dug more salt into his wound, and T.J. gritted his teeth, pushing the note to the corner of his desk like it was about to singe the hair off of his arms.  He forced himself to start on his math homework, even though it didn’t grasp his attention long, even though the words kept jumbling together. The note caught his eyes every few seconds or so, and then all those bad feelings would roll over in his stomach again, reminding T.J. of just how  _stupid_ he was.  How he was nothing.

Cyrus must’ve noticed something was wrong (not that T.J. was  _looking_ at him or anything; every time he did, something in his chest seemed to shatter all over again) because another note found its way on his desk, plaguing T.J. until he ripped it open with an annoyed demeanor.

_What’s wrong?  Did I do something? :(_

A pinch of guilt went through T.J. at ignoring Cyrus, but the anger thriving inside of him took hold instead, pouring out of him like steam.  

_Why don’t you ask your friends?  You know, the ones that don’t know we’re hanging out?_

T.J.’s words were like poison, even on paper, and the sting of them sat on his tongue like a paperweight.  He swallowed them down.

 _What are you talking about?_ Cyrus wrote back.  

T.J. rolled his eyes and huffed.  His hand flew to his pen, and he scribbled back so fast that the pitch black ink smeared on the paper, his anger swelling thickly in his throat like acid.  

_Jonah said that you asked him not to tell Buffy or Andi that we’re friends._

T.J. could feel his own impatience growing as he waited for Cyrus’s response, like an itching buzz humming on his skin.  When Cyrus tossed back the note, he almost ripped the paper in anticipation

_T.J., I can explain._

He clenched his jaw.  What was there to explain?  Cyrus was embarrassed of him, ashamed, whatever he wanted to call it.  T.J. didn’t want to hear who he’d thought was his only friend go on about how he was a disappointment.

_You know what?  Don’t bother._

As Cyrus read the note, T.J. could practically feel the dull ache in the boy’s chest from the desk over, throbbing in the air like a strained pulse, but he ignored it, instead setting his jaw so he couldn’t feel the bitter taste pooling in his mouth.  More than ever he wished he couldn’t feel. Emotions caused him nothing but trouble. _Especially_ when it came to Cyrus Goodman.

When Dr. Metcalf finally dismissed them, the principal was the first to leave the room, and Cyrus was quick to close the door behind him, locking it and trapping T.J. inside with him.  

 _Oh, great, an ambush,_ T.J. thought sarcastically to himself.   _That’ll fix everything._

“Well?” T.J. asked expectantly, his shoulders shrugging, his face stone.  A part of him was ready to lash out like a whip, ready to push him away, but the other part just wanted to melt at Cyrus’s feet and forget that anything had even happened in the first place.

Feelings were confusing.  

“T.J.,  _please_ , let me explain,” Cyrus stressed.  His brow was furrowed together the way it always did when he was worried about something, and T.J.’s stomach turned sourly.

“If you don’t want your friends to know you’re hanging out with a stupid jock, it’s whatever.  I don’t care,” T.J. spat out with a defensive shrug, even though he so, so cared, but the blinding anger was sweeping him up like tidal waves, trying to push him over the edge until he only saw red.

“ _That’s_ what you think?” Cyrus asked in disbelief, his eyebrows more raised than T.J. had ever seen.  A voice in his head made a comment about how nice they were, about how nice Cyrus’s face was in general, but he drowned them out with his anger, let the thoughts bubbling up in his head evaporate like steam coming out of his ears.

“What else would it be?” T.J. said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.  He crossed his arms, desperately feeling a need to put a barrier between them. His face was tight, trying to hold back all the emotions swimming in his chest.  

“ _T.J.,_ ” Cyrus said the way he always did, like his name had the weight of the world on it.  He took a step forward, and a tug in his stomach stopped T.J. from taking one back in retaliation.  

Cyrus took a deep breath.  “I told Jonah not to tell Buffy and Andi that we’re…well,  _friends_ ,” the boy stumbled on the word, like he wasn’t sure if it was the right one to use, “because they would’ve kept hounding me about it.  They devour stuff like that, and I didn’t want to drag you into  _that_ mess.  And Buffy hates all the guys from the basketball team because they wouldn’t let her on the team, and I just…I wanted to keep you to myself, which was selfish, and  _wrong_ , and I’m sorry,” he rambled.   T.J. didn’t know what to believe, even if every atom in his body was tugging at him to grab Cyrus’s hand and forgive him within the blink of an eye.

God, he really  _was_ a wreck.  

At his stilled silence, Cyrus pressed further. “And I’m  _not_ ashamed of you.  If anything, you should be ashamed of  _me_ ,” he joked lamely, a sort of sad smile tracing his mouth.  T.J. wondered if all of his insecurities were thinly veiled by a punchline.  Then he wondered if anyone else had even noticed.

T.J.’s face must’ve been unreadable because Cyrus decided to add, “Look, if you don’t believe me, I have something for you.”  He slung his shoulder bag off of him and fished through, producing an object riddled with wrapping paper.

“What’s that?” T.J. questioned, confused.  It wasn’t his birthday, and it  _definitely_ wasn’t Christmas, and he was positive that it was too big to be a note.  What else could it possibly be?

Cyrus handed the object carefully to him with his lips pursed, his eyebrows so tightly drawn together that T.J. wondered if the expression would be permanent.  The rectangular prism weighed heavily in his palm. “Just…open it,” Cyrus instructed, nodding toward the item.

T.J. scraped off the wrapping paper (dinosaur themed, he wasn’t surprised), only to find his math textbook buried beneath all the tape and torn wrapping.  Is that why Cyrus looked so suspicious on Friday? Had he stolen this right out of his locker?

T.J. didn’t have time to ponder on the questions churning through his brain because he discovered a note taped to the front, and his throat tightened.  

 _I’m sorry I stole this, but I hope you remember that there's_ _nothing_ _wrong with you every time you open it.  -Cyrus, AKA Underdog._

He flicked through the pages, uncovering what seemed like  _hundreds_ of Post-It notes stuffed into every corner of his textbook, tucked into random places, crowding over equations.  One said,  _You can do it, T.J.!_ and another read,  _I believe in you :)._

All the doubt plaguing his chest melted away like ice, and that funny feeling pooled in his chest, the air around him feeling thin.  It was the best present he’d ever been given, even if it was  _his_ math book that Cyrus stole.  Cyrus was always surprising him in the best ways possible, and right then T.J. could’ve pulled him forward and hugged him until the entire world fell away.  

He didn’t know what was stopping him.  From hugging Cyrus, he meant.

Maybe it was the feeling that he’d burst into a million pieces if he did.  Or the thought that he’d never let go.

He was pretty sure both were right.

“Thanks,” T.J. choked out, surprised to hear how quiet his voice sounded.  He swallowed down the meekness ringing in his words. “It means a lot, Underdog.”

Cyrus smiled, so relieved that his eyebrows finally dipped down back to normal, and he brought a hand forward and squeezed T.J.’s shoulder.  T.J.’s stomach flipped over, like a swimmer springing off a diving board.

“Anytime,” Cyrus said, giving him a playful nudge.  What felt like a thousand lightning bolts jolted through T.J.’s chest.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” It was expectant, hopeful. T.J. let out a soft beam.

“Yeah.  Tomorrow.”  Cyrus smiled back at him, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary.  Before he could leave the room, T.J. called out, "Cyrus?"

Cyrus twisted around to face him.  "Yeah?"

T.J. beamed.  "I'm not ashamed of you either."

Cyrus grinned so wide that his eyes crinkled.  "Thanks."  Then he was out the door, leaving T.J. alone with his burning thoughts.  

After Cyrus left, all T.J. could do was stare down at his newly ornamented math book, beaming like an idiot.  His entire body felt like it was on fire, scorching at the edges, and for once T.J. didn’t suppress it, didn’t push down the feelings constantly rising up like waves in his chest.  He just…let them run free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and let us know what you thought! What do you think Reed meant by that comment in the locker room? What did T.J. do?


	8. Open Us Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait! Our lives have been so, so busy lately, but thanks for those of you that continuously keep checking up on us or on the fic for updates. We appreciate it more than you can know. 
> 
> Anyway, to make up for the hiatus on this fic (and on the show), this chapter is the longest one yet and is over 8000 words! I hope you all enjoy it! And, of course, don't forget to check out Di's artwork for the chapter [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/184751153349/the-notes-we-write-chapter-8).

****Tuesday was better.

It was better because math class didn’t feel like a million concrete blocks on T.J.’s chest, making everything in him weigh down like lead.  It was better because everytime he got stuck on an equation he could just look down at his textbook and find something encouraging written within its pages.  And it was better because he got a D+ on his math homework, something that a month ago would’ve seemed like climbing Mount Everest.

Well, it still _was_ that difficult.  But maybe he had a little inspiration to try harder.  (So what if that inspiration was Cyrus?)

It was fourth period when Mr. Coleman had been passing back their most recent assignments, giving praise and notes of encouragement along as he strolled up and down the rows.  T.J. was tapping his pencil, trying not to let his growing anticipation push him into annoyance as the last few minutes of class fell away.

 _Great,_ T.J. thought to himself, trying not to roll his eyes into the back of his head.   _Another F.  Nothing I’m not used to._

Finally, his math teacher made his way to the back row, pausing beside his desk.  T.J. held his breath and averted his eyes, willing Mr. Coleman to drop it off and stalk away so T.J. could stuff the paper into his binder and never look at it again.  

The paper fell onto his desk in a surprising ripple, and T.J.’s eyebrows raised in shock at the grade shimmering in red ink at the top right hand corner of his assignment.  

“Looks like you’re improving, T.J.,” Mr. Coleman said encouragingly, semi-satisfaction ringing in his voice.  T.J. was in too much surprise to respond, and Mr. Coleman continued, lowering his voice. “I know you’re adamant on not getting a new tutor, and I still think you could use some help.  But I’m glad you’re putting forth the effort. Nice work.” He waltzed to Gus next, leaving T.J. to stare down at his paper in disbelief.

 _Nice work_.  It was such a rare thing to hear off of the basketball court, and even _more_ rare to hear from a teacher who saw more F’s from him than passing scores.  The only person that was ever proud of him regardless of his faults was Cyrus, which only made T.J. _more_ confused.  How could someone so amazing manage to see past all of his rough corners and sharp edges?

Cyrus Goodman was made of magic, T.J. was convinced.  Magic and kindness and even some hope for the world and everyone in it, which was something that T.J. had none of.

Well, maybe he did have a little hope for the universe.  But that was Cyrus’s fault. He was always pushing his good into him, making T.J. see things in a brighter light than he was used to, and now he had no one to blame for his new personality change but Cyrus Goodman, the boy with the scrunched eyebrows and collared shirts and smile that could light up the whole room.   

T.J. wondered how Cyrus did it.  How he accepted people and cheered them on and changed them for the better.  All T.J. did was make things _worse_.  He couldn’t imagine caring so much but, then again, Cyrus was teaching him how.  

T.J. cared about a lot of things now.  Maybe even some things he shouldn’t.

When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the period, T.J. got up from his chair distractedly, still staring down at his math textbook filled to the brim with Post-It notes.  He thought about what Cyrus had said the other day in detention, about telling Mr. Coleman about the dyscalculia. About how he could help. Cyrus was rarely ever wrong, and now, weirdly enough, T.J. was actually considering his suggestion…  

T.J. scribbled down a note on a blue Post-It, and, for the first time in maybe ever, left math class with a smile on his face, slipping the note into Cyrus’s locker before heading to the cafeteria.  

 _Maybe telling Mr. Coleman isn’t such a bad idea after all_ , T.J. thought to himself before he was swallowed up by the noise of the lunchroom.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

* * *

_Meet me by my locker after lunch.  I want to talk to you about something. -T.J._

* * *

T.J. rapped his knuckles against the metal of the lockers behind him in boredom, somehow managing to ignore all the eyes on him as he waited for Cyrus.  Usually he would’ve sneered and scoffed at everyone staring at him, but the person he used to be was so foreign to him now that he wouldn’t even know what he’d do if his old self strutted up beside him and tried to start a conversation.

He’d probably punch him, T.J. decided.  Old T.J. definitely deserved it. Besides, he was used to punching things now.  Or people, at least.

The memory crept in the back of his throat like sour acid, and T.J. swallowed it down, trying to push down the events from that were pulling at the edges of his brain.  He didn’t like thinking about it too much, about what he did. Sometimes he considered telling Cyrus about what happened that day with Reed, but he was afraid that maybe that would be the one thing that was too much for the boy to accept.  The one thing that drove him away. And he _couldn’t_ lose Cyrus.  Cyrus was the only good thing in his life, the one thing T.J. was determined not to leave in pieces under his fingertips.

Another agonizing minute passed, the whole world watching his every move, and then Cyrus was beside him, panting for air like a labrador.  

“Sorry,” he heaved, gulping for air. “I didn’t see your note until I got back from lunch!”

T.J. felt amusement pull at his features, all of his previous annoyance melting away, and he put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder.  “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Cyrus said.  His voice sounded strained from his labored breathing, and he tried again.  “I’m fine!” he insisted.

They locked eyes for a second, the background behind Cyrus blurring into indistinguishable fuzz, and then Cyrus tore his gaze away, searching for something in his shoulder bag.  T.J. tried to ignore the ripple of disappointment going through his chest, how it seemed to rip right through him like scissors with fabric, and shoved away the feeling, swallowed it down.

“By the way, did you get the permission slip for Friday?”  Cyrus retrieved a slip of paper from a folder, gripping it with an excited gleam that lit his face up like the sun, and T.J. didn’t bother hiding his own smile at the boy’s ecstatic expression.

“Permission slip for what?’ he asked, beginning to walk forward, his hands shoved in his pockets.  Cyrus followed him, his heels bouncing against the tiled floors as he spoke, a certain light to his voice that T.J. rarely ever found in his own.  Or, at least he used to not be able to. Cyrus made it appear more often than not these days, and sometimes T.J. wondered if he’d lost the hard edge to his throat that he’d always had before, the contorting sneer that always wound around his words.  He didn’t mind the change, though. Not really.

“The field trip!” Cyrus exclaimed.  “You know, the annual one we’re supposed to have every year?”

T.J. internally groaned, nearly rolling his eyes.   _The_ Field Trip.  The one that the teachers held over their heads, threatening to revoke their invitation if they didn’t get good enough grades.  Dr. Metcalf had actually cancelled it last year, saying it was because of bad exam scores, but T.J. personally thought he got joy out of making them miserable.  “What is it this year?” T.J. asked.

“I’m not sure!” Cyrus said, eyes glancing over the paper.  “I didn’t want to look until I found you,” he admitted. A roll of something T.J couldn’t identify inflated in his chest like a balloon, feeling heavy and light all at once, and he grinned.

“Well, I’m here now,” he said with a smile.  That funny feeling felt like it was leaking out of his pores.  T.J. hoped he wasn’t picking up on it, how Cyrus managed to make the entire focus of his vision shift like stars in the sky.  “What is it?”

“It’s at Moore’s Rollerblading Rink.  Hmph,” Cyrus huffed disappointedly. His mouth curved downward, and T.J.’s mind couldn’t help but come up with ways to make it right side up.  Maybe even a way that he shouldn’t of…

 _Stop_ , T.J. told himself.  His mind was treading dangerous waters ever since yesterday.  Even T.J. wasn’t able to push down all of his feelings anymore.  More often than not they were escaping his tight grip, whirling around inside until he couldn’t stand it.  “What’s wrong?”

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together the way they usually did, and T.J. shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t move forward and smooth out the line forming between them.  “Where do I start? First of all, I _can’t_ rollerblade—”

“You can’t rollerblade?” T.J. interrupted.  He was sort of surprised; he meant, Shadyside wasn’t exactly bursting with places to go besides The Spoon, the Red Rooster, and the Alpine Slide.  T.J. assumed everyone knew how to rollerblade since it was one of the only few things to do in town.

“Once my mom rented the whole rink out for my seventh birthday and I almost broke my ankle,” Cyrus exclaimed exasperatedly.  “I had to sit out by myself and watch all of the other kids have fun.” Cyrus pouted, and T.J. laughed.

“That must’ve been a memorable birthday for you,” T.J. commented with an amused smile.  

“Oh, they all are in their own way,” Cyrus promised.  “Trust me, the Goodman family _loves_ throwing parties.  You should’ve seen my bar mitzvah last year!  It was insane!”

“Don’t worry, I believe you,” T.J. replied with a laugh.  He was pretty sure that if he couldn’t believe Cyrus, then he couldn’t believe anyone at all.  “When is your birthday, anyway?” He wasn’t sure why he was asking, he knew it was random, but he liked collecting little details like that, liked running them through his head.  It wasn’t even a new thing, either; as far as T.J. knew, he’d been doing it since that first day in detention. Maybe even before they met, actually…

“March 30th,” Cyrus admitted with a beam.  T.J. felt his eyebrows raise in question; that was only in two weeks.  “My mom hasn’t sent out the invitations yet or anything, but…you should come.”  A bright smile lit up his face, and that familiar weird feeling danced in T.J.’s stomach.  

“I’m there.”  A beat of silence passed between them.  “And, by the way, if you can’t rollerblade?  I can help you with that,” T.J. offered, not able to help himself.  Words always spilled out of his mouth uncontrollably when he was with Cyrus, seeped through like ink bleeding through paper.  He wondered how long it would take for him to call Cyrus ‘cute’ or something stupid right in front of him. Probably not long, at least not with the track he’d been on lately.  

Cyrus’s eyes brightened visibly, his eyebrows scrunching together in disbelief.  “Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” T.J. shugged carelessly, even though on the inside it felt like the bullet shells were ricocheting in his ribcage.  “We can even sit on the bus together, if you want. Well, as long as your friends don’t mind.” The words came out a little sour, but they escaped before T.J. could hold them in.

“I’m going to tell them,” Cyrus insisted.  He paused in the hallway and squeezed T.J.’s shoulder, and T.J. vaguely wondered if anyone else had ever felt like this around Cyrus, like they were about to erupt into stars at the slightest touch.  He wasn’t so sure if it was normal or not, but he was sure that Cyrus could melt him under his fingertips if given the chance. He sort of wanted to let him. “That we’re friends, I mean. I promise.”

“Okay,” T.J. said, nodding.  He didn’t know if he could get any more words out than that.

“Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?” Cyrus asked, a curious look pooling in his eyes.  They were stopped outside of Cyrus’s fifth period, history, and T.J. didn’t know why he knew that. He’d sort of always been watching Cyrus, keeping an eye on him without even realizing, and he guessed this was just proof that he’d been paying attention.  Maybe more than he should’ve been, for a boy he hadn’t even known until recently.

The warning bell rang, reminding students to go to their classes, and T.J. felt the time of the clock press against his chest, rushing him to get his words out.  “I wanted to tell Mr. Coleman about my dyscalculia,” T.J. admitted. The words used to feel like such a heavy weight on him, bricks on his shoulders, but ever since yesterday when Cyrus had given him his math book with all those encouraging notes in them, the phrase felt on light as air on his tongue.  How could Cyrus manage to make him feel totally okay with something that months, even _weeks_ ago would’ve made him kick and scream and yell?

“That’s great, T.J.!” Cyrus exclaimed with a smile.  The genuine look in his eyes was bright enough to rival the afternoon sun.  “I’m so proud of you.”

There it was again. Cyrus’s infinite pride and support in him.  He didn’t even think his dad was that proud of him, at least not most of the time.  “Thanks, Underdog,” T.J. said, squeezing his shoulder. That funny feeling shot into his stomach again.  “And we’re still hanging out at the park tomorrow, right?”

“Definitely!” Cyrus affirmed with a bright smile.  T.J. wanted to keep his smile going, racked his brain to keep it from fading from Cyrus's face, but a figure appeared in front of them and cleared their throat.  

“Ahem,” a voice interrupted sternly.  Everything bubbling up in T.J.’s chest was suddenly shoved down with a wave of annoyance.   _Dr. Metcalf._ Of course.  Of course he had to come and interrupt him and Cyrus.  Of course it had to be right here, right now, because his timing could _never_ be better.

Before T.J. could let the red stirring in him sweep him away, he caught Cyrus’s slightly alarmed gaze, and he choked down any anger brewing in his stomach.

“What’s up?” T.J. asked, mustering up the smallest amount of enthusiasm he could manage.  He earned a glare from the principal anyway, and he clenched his jaw together to keep anything he’d regret from falling out of his mouth.

“Well, as I’m sure you both know, the school _field trip_ is this Friday.”  He spat out the phrase _field trip_ like it was a vile poison on his tongue.  Anything resembling fun in Dr. Metcalf’s eyes probably _did_ feel like poison, at least in T.J.'s opinion.  

“What about it?” Cyrus asked politely.  T.J. was surprised that he was talking to Dr. Metcalf without that familiar waver in his voice, and he felt an unexpected smile tug on his lips.

“Well, as you can see on the itinerary—” Dr. Metcalf whipped out a stack of papers, and T.J. nearly rolled his eyes into the back of his head in boredom at the word _itinerary_ “—we’ll leave the school at 8:15, arrive at the rollerblading rink at 8:30, skate until noon, take a lunch break until 1:00, then continue blading until 4 o’clock, then leave and arrive back at the school by 4:30,” the principal sped off.  T.J. just let the numbers bounce off of him, didn’t even bother to commit them to memory (it wasn’t like they’d stick, anyway; hardly anything did), but Cyrus nodded like he understood.

“So, detention…?” Cyrus started.

“Is being moved due to conflict of schedule, yes,” Dr. Metcalf continued with a reluctant sigh.  He almost seemed disappointed by the change; T.J. wondered how someone could get so much joy out of running detention for two students that did nothing for the entire period except exchange notes, but, then again, there was a lot of things he didn’t understand about Dr. Metcalf.  He didn’t think he’d ever fully get his principal.

“When is it being moved to?” T.J. asked bluntly.  Dr. Metcalf nearly scowled at him, keeping his annoyance masked by a thin veil of authority that he always wore around him like a cloak.

“The first of April,” he said with raised eyebrows.  Dr. Metcalf glared at T.J.  “And don’t bother trying any pranks on that day.  I _won’t_ be exercising my sense of humor if you do,” he warned, giving Cyrus a pointed look.  The boy gulped noticeably, and with that, the principal stalked away, his shoes thudding eerily all the way down the school hallway.

“Well, guess that’s out the window,” T.J. said with a shrug, amused.  Then he turned to Cyrus, asking, “We should have some celebratory party, to mark the end of detention, or something.  I swear we’ve been going to it for years,” he joked lamely.

Cyrus beamed in a way that made T.J.’s lungs feel tight.  “It’s only been a few weeks,” he replied, shaking his head in amusement.  “But we should have some kind of party. With streamers and cake and—”

“—man, you really like parties,” T.J. interrupted, mirth dancing in his eyes.  

“I told you.  It’s a curse!” Cyrus exclaimed.  The bell rang again, and T.J. placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder, squeezing it before leaving him with a breeze of a smile.  

“See ya,” he farewelled, pulling away.  Cyrus waved, ducking into his history class, and T.J. strolled to his own, wondering when his heart would stop pounding in his chest.  

* * *

“Jonah, help me, _please_ ,” Cyrus whined, plopping onto the beaten couch.  The Red Rooster was almost always dead immediately after school, and right now was no exception.  Besides a few eight-year-olds flitting in and out for their weekly guitar lessons with Bowie, Jonah and Cyrus were the only ones in the front room except for a mellowed-out woman sitting behind the counter.  Cyrus got the feeling that she wasn’t listening in on their conversation that much. “I helped you with that song you wrote for Andi so now it’s your turn!”

Jonah, as usual, was not good at smoothing things over on his own, so Cyrus had had to help him with it on Monday.  In fact, he had been so busy helping Jonah re-serenade Andi that he had been late to detention yesterday. The _horror…_ It was mortifying!

“Relax, relax,” Jonah laughed, putting his hands in surrender.  His laugh still sounded like bells, even if it made Cyrus’s chest ache a little.  “What is it, Cy?” Jonah asked in concern, his smile dazzling like the sun. Cyrus waited for that familiar pull in his stomach, the one he always got when Jonah beamed at him, but it didn’t fire in his belly like he thought it would.  He frowned.

“I’m going to tell Buffy and Andi about T.J.,” Cyrus burst suddenly.  Jonah nodded along, looking slightly surprised. “But I’m afraid Buffy’s gonna _kill_ me when I tell her my friend from detention is T.J. Kippen.”

“Why do you think that?” Jonah asked curiously, absentmindedly tuning his guitar.  He strummed every few seconds or so, and Cyrus would've smiled at the action if he weren't freaking out so much.

“Because he’s the _captain of the basketball team_!  They wouldn’t let her on the team last year because she’s a girl, remember?” Cyrus exclaimed.  He always got a little hysterical when he was freaked out by something, and Buffy was usually the one to snap him out of it, but he couldn’t go to Buffy.  Not about this.

“Oh, yeah!” Jonah said, a note of realization ringing in his voice.  “I remember that.”

Sometimes Cyrus couldn’t help but wonder if Jonah paid attention to anything except guitar and Frisbee.  It was a horrible thought to think, but it popped into his mind regardless (and not for the first time in his life, either).  

“But what do I do?” Cyrus asked desperately.  “I promised T.J. that I’d tell Buffy and Andi about our friendship, since you told him about that.”

Jonah at least had the _decency_ to look guilty.  “I’m sorry, dude! I just thought I was supposed to not tell Andi and Buffy!”  Cyrus shook his head playfully, the guitar player already forgiven in his mind, and felt a small smile pull at his lips at Jonah’s obliviousness.  

“It’s okay, Jonah, I’m not mad,” Cyrus promised.  “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this without Buffy killing me _and_ T.J.”

“Buffy can be scary,” Jonah nodded along.  Cyrus knew how much pleasure it would give her just to hear Jonah say those words, and he held back a grin.  “What’s the plan, Good-man?”

Cyrus smiled, his heart feeling light that Jonah was on his side, helping him for a change.  Sometimes he couldn’t help but feel like their relationship was one-sided, unbalanced, but moments like these made him remember how good of a friend Jonah _could_ be sometimes.  He was nice like that.  Probably the nicest person Cyrus had ever met, even.  His heart melted a little before he internally warned himself, reminded himself how his feelings for Jonah always burned him up like scorching water when he let them take over.  

Why was it so _hard_ liking Jonah Beck?

“Okay, so I want you to make sure they’re both in good moods. Butter them up for me!” Cyrus instructed.  Jonah tilted his head, half-confused, and more than ever he looked like a golden retriever, that innocent look in his eyes reminiscent of a dog begging for treats somehow.  

“Why?” Jonah asked curiously.  Cyrus almost face-palmed. How could he make this scheme any more _obvious_?

“The better moods they’re in, _especially_ Buffy, the less likely they are to be mad at me,” Cyrus explained.  The words themselves almost flew him into a sense of panic, like a dozen knots trying to untangle themselves in his chest, and he took a deep breath to subside the sudden wave of anxiety.  He wished he weren’t so worried about this, wished he could just _tell_ them, wished they’d just be happy for him no matter who he was friends with.  But they weren’t so accepting of him befriending Amber last year either. If he remembered correctly, Andi fled The Spoon at the news and Buffy interrogated him, asking him “Why?” a dozen times.  At least for Amber he had an answer, a coherent one he could put into words. With T.J., all he got was this feeling, something that just rose up and filled him. How could he explain _that_?

Jonah nodded, like he at least somewhat understood.  He smiled, his teeth sparkling. “Easy enough. I’ve got this, Cyrus, don’t worry!”  Jonah clapped him on the shoulder and Cyrus couldn’t help but hold his breath, trying not to speed his heart up more than necessary.  

“You’re a _lifesaver_ , Jonah Beck.”  Jonah laughed, sending a dull ache in Cyrus’s chest, and beamed proudly at the words.  Jonah could probably dazzle like that just off of pure compliments if he wanted to.

“No problem, Cy.”  A beat passed, and the silence put an undeniable hum on Cyrus’s skin, like he was waiting for something to happen between them.  Which it never would obviously, because he was _Jonah_ and he was dating _Andi_ , but Cyrus couldn’t help but feel that pull of _want_ , the cloud of romance his heart seemed endlessly stuck on.  

If Jonah felt anything of the sort, he didn’t show it.  “Here, I have to go do my weekly guitar lesson with Bowie, so I’ll see you at The Spoon later, right?”  Cyrus cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his delirious state.

“Yeah, of course.  Bye!”

“Bye!” Jonah farewelled, waving.  Then, with a flash, he disappeared behind the curtain, and Cyrus couldn’t help but feel the thing he had been hopelessly seeking after for forever was once again snatched out of his hands.  

But had it really ever been his in the first place?

* * *

On Wednesday morning when Cyrus waltzed through the double doors, he immediately saw T.J. heading right towards him, the basketball player’s face lighting up like a flame.

“Hey, Cyrus, what’s up?” he asked casually, bumping into him as they walked side-by-side.  It jostled something in Cyrus’s chest, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Nothing much, just heading to my locker.  What about you?”

T.J. clutched the strap of his backpack, then glanced at Cyrus.  “I’m about to head to Mr. Coleman’s class. You know, about my math thing.”

Cyrus nodded, flashing him a proud smile.  “That’s so great! I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.”

T.J. nodded along.  “Right. Except I was wondering if you’d come with me,” he suggested.  Cyrus’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. T.J. wanted _him_ to come along?  “You know, to tell Mr. Coleman.  Without you, I’d probably still be getting 50 percents on my homework instead of 68s,” T.J. snorted.  “You’re the one who really helped me. Not my tutors or anyone else, so if you’d come with me, that would be—”

“Of _course_ I will, Teej!” Cyrus exclaimed.  He didn’t know where the nickname came from, just that it had fallen out of his mouth.  Hmm.  Teej.  He might have to use that more often.  “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

T.J. grinned, hooking an arm around his shoulders as they walked through the hallway together.  “Thanks. You’re amazing.” Cyrus smiled even wider, his cheeks going hot at the compliment.

“Don’t mention it!  Now let’s go find his classroom!”

* * *

“Mr. Coleman?” T.J. clenched his jaw in annoyance at how his voice sounded, shattered and collapsed, and he willed his confidence to bleed through.  “I want to tell you something,” he admitted, more clearly this time.

Their teacher paused mid-sentence on the dry erase board (something about the Pythagorean theorem, T.J. was pretty sure), his palm marked blue from writing today’s notes with his left hand.  He capped the marker, setting it on the tray attached to the wall with a dull ping. “Yeah, of course, T.J.,” he started, then noticed the boy behind him, “ _and_ Cyrus. I didn’t know you guys were friends,” he remarked.

“Yeah.  We are,” T.J. said after a beat, glancing back at Cyrus with a half-smile.  Cyrus gave him a shy beam, and T.J.’s heart spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Well, come on in, have a seat,” Mr. Coleman said, gesturing to the two front row desks.  They shuffled over to the two in the dead center, sliding in while an easy silence filled the room.  Mr. Coleman leaned against his own, crossing his arms in what T.J. could only describe as an authoritative manner.  “What brings you two boys here in the morning before school starts?”

“Actually,” T.J. started, sparing Cyrus a look.  Cyrus nodded once, his eyes pooling with encouragement.  “I wanted to tell you about the reason why I have trouble with this class so much.  Cyrus helped me realize it,” T.J. explained.

“Well, what is it?” Mr. Coleman asked, leaning forward in interest.

T.J. exhaled.  “I think I have dyscalculia.  It’s a learning disability.”

Something seemed to click in their teacher’s brain, puzzle pieces shifting in the windows of his eyes.  “I can’t believe I didn’t have you tested sooner, T.J.,” Mr. Coleman said, running a hand through his hair.  “I wish I would’ve known! I’m sorry, T.J., I’ve been giving you a hard time about this for so long and you aren’t even being taught correctly—”

T.J. waved him off, suddenly feeling piles upon piles of guilt on how he’d previously treated Mr. Coleman after math tests and failed assignments build in him like brick on brick.  “It’s not your fault. And I haven’t been the most easy to get along with, anyway,” he said, the two of them sharing an amused smile. “Honestly, I’m just…I want to be able to learn math, Mr. C.  Like everyone else.”

Mr. Coleman cracked a smile, and suddenly the tension wrapped around T.J.’s chest in hot coils shattered like ice.  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, T.J. I’ll get you set up with a specialized tutor as soon as possible and get you officially tested, okay?”

T.J. nodded.  “Okay. Thank you,” T.J. said, standing up to meet his teacher.  He and Cyrus shared another smile, and, relief swelling up inside him, T.J. turned to walk out the door, Cyrus following suit.  However, before he could leave, Mr. Coleman clapped T.J. on the shoulder, causing him to whirl around.

“I’m proud of you for telling me,” he spoke, his eyes gleaming like Cyrus’s did when he achieved something, like he won a gold medal or something.  T.J. didn’t think he deserved it, that pride, but it melted him, destroyed every shred of doubt humming on his skin. “I’ll see you both in class,” Mr. Coleman said, nodding to the both of them.  He removed his hand, and T.J. could only manage to smile back, his voice disappearing in his chest before he could reply.

Once they were back in the hallway, Cyrus beamed so widely that T.J. wondered how his cheeks weren’t aching.  “See!” he exclaimed. His eyes shone like T.J. hung the moon. If only Cyrus knew that T.J. thought that way about him.  As far as T.J. was concerned, Cyrus had constructed every constellation in the sky.  “I told you you could do it!”

People were beginning to arrive and stroll through the hallway now, weaving around them, and T.J. felt their eyes on them, surveilling their conversation, and for once T.J. pushed away their stares, put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder instead.  

“Without you, I couldn’t of.”  Without Cyrus, T.J. couldn’t do a lot of things.  He couldn’t get through the hallways without lashing out at everyone who looked at him the wrong way, couldn’t get through math class without bursting at Mr. Coleman.  Couldn’t be himself.  Well, whoever that was.

“That’s not true,” Cyrus replied, shaking his head.  “You can do more than you think you can.” Cyrus’s eyes poured into him, dazzling like the stars outside of T.J. bedroom window, and T.J. thought if he got one inch closer, he might drown in them.  Just as T.J.’s gaze shifted down to his mouth (a fleeting, impossible second of wondering, _what if?_ ), the bell rang, clearing them out of their shared daze.  

“I'm sorry, I have to go,” Cyrus said, giving an apologetic smile.  T.J. blinked. _What was that?_

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat.  Cyrus’s hand brushed against his back, and then he was gone, dashing to his class in the other direction.  T.J. considered looking behind him, getting one last glance, but he drove through the hall instead, silently wondering if he could leave his thoughts in the hallway if he ran fast enough.

* * *

_Thanks for helping me with Mr. Coleman.  I’m glad you’re my friend. -T.J., your partner in crime_

_P.S. Meet me at the park after school.  Can’t forget about our hangout today, right?_

* * *

It was the end of the day before Buffy, Andi, Jonah, and Cyrus were even all together.  Buffy and Marty skipped out on lunch to practice for a track meet later that night and (begrudgingly) took the pre-made trail mix and dried fruit Cyrus offered them so they could keep their energy up.  What could he say? He was prepared for everything! Even the apocalypse!

It was after seventh period, and instead of waiting out the crowd, Cyrus walked side-by-side with his best friends, Jonah trailing along.  Honestly, even with Cyrus’s planned ambush, he should’ve known it would be doomed to the start with his luck…

“I can’t believe you sprained your ankle before your track meet!” Andi exclaimed with a concerned shake of her head.  Apparently, at her and Marty's extra lunch practice, she had tripped over a stray duffel bag (" _A duffel bag of all things!"_ she had exclaimed.  " _I mean, I'm not Cyrus!_ ") in the locker room. 

Buffy hobbled gruffly, arms crossed and unwilling to receive help from anyone (even Marty, who had wrapped an arm around her shoulders despite her protesting).  Jonah cast Cyrus a anxious look that was all worry lines and raised eyebrows, panic crossing his face, and Cyrus simply bit his lip and shook his head. There was _no_ buttering up Buffy now.  It was impossible to get her out of a funk like this, _especially_ since it was one of the first track meets of the year and she was already sporting an injury.

“I’m still running,” she insisted.  To prove this, she shrugged Marty off of her, immediately wincing and losing her balance.  Jonah and Marty rushed to her side, bringing her back up in a straight position.

Marty shook his head adamantly.  “No, you’re not, Buffy,” he said, rolling his eyes with amusement.  It almost felt like he was chastising a stubborn child, in their weird, competitive banter kind of way that Cyrus had never completely understood.  “You can sit out _one_ meet.”

“You just don’t want me to beat your record time tonight,” Buffy grumbled, huffing out of her nose.  Andi and Jonah exchanged a worried glance, and Cyrus pretended not to feel the tiny twist in his stomach at their shared gaze.  He wasn’t sure if it was because of Jonah himself or just the fact that they both had someone, had each other. He wondered when he’d have that, then wondered if he’d ever get the chance.  

“Trust me, you won’t be beating any records now, especially not _mine_ ,” Marty said with a competitive grin, squeezing her shoulder.  Then, on a more serious note, he added, “Come on, seriously. If we lose, at least you can say it’s because we didn’t have our best female runner,” he reminded her.  

The compliment sparked something in Buffy’s eyes, the ghost of a smile hovering over her mouth.  “You mean best _overall_ runner,” she corrected him.  Marty laughed. “Fine, but you’re telling Coach Rez I can't run.”

“I will,” Marty said, nudging into her playfully.  They stared at each other, seemingly stuck in a world that the rest of them weren’t a part of, and Cyrus felt that green envy growing around him like grape vines, suffocating and choking out any shred of happiness he had for his friends.  Guilt lit in him like a flame, and Cyrus wanted more than anything to get rid of the ugly green monster thriving in him. “And I’ll keep you company on the bench when I’m not running,” Marty offered.

“So will I!” Andi added, Jonah consequently chiming in with a supportive, “Me, too!”

Cyrus felt that guilt fill him up again like billowing smoke as the rest of them gave him an expectant glance.  “Actually, I’m busy tonight,” he admitted, shame flickering on his face. “I’m sorry, but we can go to The Spoon tomorrow—”

“Cyrus, it’s fine,” Buffy insisted, an encouraging smile on her face.  “We all know you’re hanging out with your ‘detention buddy’ tonight,” she paraphrased teasingly, crooking her fingers to represent air quotes.  Cyrus frowned.

“How did you know that?”

“You’ve been gushing about it since Monday,” Andi said with an amused smile, nudging him playfully with her sweater-covered elbow.  Cyrus blinked.  Had he really talked about it that much?

“Still, I’m sorry,” he apologized, a breath of relief finding its way into his lungs.  He gulped. “I promise, though, I’ll come to your next track meet and bring you all the baby taters you want—”

“Relax,” Buffy said, beaming.  They finally paused by her locker, Buffy leaning against it in a way that clearly indicated she needed the metal frame of the row of lockers to keep her upright.  “We’re happy for you.” The way she said it nagged at Cyrus in a way he couldn’t explain, so he just shoved it aside before his brain could dwell on it for too long.

“Thanks.”  He hugged her tightly, forgetting she was injured for a second, and pulled away abruptly when she winced.  “Sorry!”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she said again.  “Now, go! Don’t want to keep your _friend_ waiting,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.  Cyrus let out a guilty smile, then backed away to find T.J. at the park.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he said with a final wave, nearly racing (well, his version of racing, anyway) to his locker.  Sliding his binder and notebooks into his bag, a part of him silently hoped that maybe his friends would be more accepting of his friendship with T.J. than he originally thought.

* * *

T.J. bounced the ball against the ragged blacktop once, then twice, the ground wearing against the soles of his shoes.  He hadn’t been playing basketball nearly enough since basketball season had ended a month or so ago, and he felt his old maneuvers and strategies coming back to him as he dribbled along the court.  He leapt up, the ball soaring from his hands, and held his breath in anticipation.   _One...two…_

The ball sailed through the net, and T.J. smiled, proud of his (impressive, he dared say) shot.  Basketball had always been something so easy to him, involuntary, like breathing. Sometimes T.J. wished he were better at things other at basketball, but, as he had learned the hard way, life wasn’t always fair, right?

He jumped up again, grinning with a satisfied grin when the ball hit the backboard and toppled into the net, falling back onto the blacktop in syncopated thuds.  

“Wow,” T.J. heard a voice gasp in awe.  He turned his head toward the source of noise, then felt a basketball bouncing in his own stomach as he saw Cyrus step out from the sun and into his vision.  “I wish _I_ could do that without giving myself a concussion,” the boy teased, clearly impressed.  T.J. met his expression with a wide smile, all teeth, and silently remarked how Cyrus looked with the sun spilling over him, casting a glow on his face.  

“Have you ever shot a basketball?” T.J. asked, lifting the sphere with his right hand in question.  

Cyrus shook his head.  “Not successfully,” he admitted with a shrug.  

T.J.’s eyebrows raised, an idea winding in his head.  “I can show you if you want.”

Cyrus’s eyes lit up, his eyes glittering with excitement, and T.J. was suddenly glad he offered.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, matching Cyrus’s expression.  “Sure. It’ll be fun.”

“Okay,” Cyrus nodded, still beaming.  He waltzed over to T.J., standing in front of him, and T.J. pushed the ball into his hands.  “Where do we start?”   _We_.  It was something so stupid for T.J. to care about, so unimportant, but it made his chest rattle anyway.  

“Okay, so first off: stance,” T.J. started, brushing behind Cyrus.  He told himself that it wasn’t intentional, but he wasn’t so sure if he believed himself or not.  “Make sure your feet are the correct width apart,” he said gently.

Cyrus adjusted the width of his feet by an inch or so.  “Like this?”

T.J. nudged his foot with his shoe.  “Like this,” he corrected. Cyrus nodded, and T.J. pushed down the sudden wave of butterflies in his stomach as he knew what was coming next.  

“Now what do I do?” Cyrus asked, turning his head to T.J. in question.  His feet stayed glued to the ground while he twisted awkwardly to face him, and T.J. suppressed a smile at the boy.

“Bend your knees a little,” T.J. instructed, suddenly feeling a lump form in his throat.  He grazed the back of Cyrus, his shoulders skimming against Cyrus’s shoulder blades. He held his breath.  “Put your hands up like this.” T.J. brought his arms around Cyrus, placing hands on top of hands, skin on top of skin, and suddenly that funny feeling rushed back into him with full force, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs.  T.J. pushed it away, wishing he could stop _feeling_ , wishing his relationship with Cyrus was conventional, ordinary, normal.

Had his relationship with Cyrus ever been normal?  T.J. wasn’t sure, didn’t, _couldn’t_ remember when these weird feelings began plaguing him.  Maybe they’d always been with him.  Maybe it had been easier to ignore them when he didn’t know Cyrus, but now that he did, they were just rising up and taking root of him, controlling a part of himself that he didn’t know existed until recently.

“Is this okay?” Cyrus asked for confirmation, the ball poised a little higher than his head.  T.J. breathed in, pulling his hands away from Cyrus with a jolt.  He wondered when the butterflies in his stomach would flutter away, but, if anything, they seemed to react every time Cyrus would take in a breath, his back shifting against him.  T.J. tried to force down the lump in his throat.

“That’s great,” he told Cyrus, his heart stuttering in his chest.  He settled his hands on Cyrus’s waist, pointedly ignoring the flip that whirled in his stomach at the contact.  “Okay, when I tell you to, leap up, then aim for the goal.”

“I don’t know how to aim—” Cyrus protested.

“—you’ll do fine,” T.J. insisted.  He felt Cyrus take a deep breath, like he was inhaling courage, and T.J. tried to ignore the way his spine shifted underneath his touch.  “You can do this. You ready?”

“I’m ready,” Cyrus said, nodding once.  He wasn’t sure who Cyrus was trying to convince more: T.J. or himself.

“Okay, in one, two—”

“Wait, am I going on three or on go?” Cyrus asked, still facing forward.  T.J. could see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“You go on ‘three’,” T.J. reminded, chuckling to himself.  His grip around Cyrus tightened. “Okay, one...," he paused, letting his voice trickle into the air.  "Two...three!”

Cyrus pushed off from his feet, leaping up in a less-than-graceful manner (that T.J. found adorable, not that he would say that out loud), and the ball circled the rim for a beat, the two boys watching with bated breath.  Whether it was the wind blowing or just pure luck, the ball tipped into the net, swishing like a fresh gust of air.

“I did it!” Cyrus spoke in disbelief, drawing in a surprised breath.  He tugged on his shirt in surprise, smiling wide. “T.J., I _did_ it!”

“Good job, Underdog,” T.J. said with a beam.  He snatched Cyrus’s elbow, trying to convey some kind of pride for the boy with his touch, his hand burning into Cyrus’s forearm for probably longer than necessary.  Then, before T.J. knew what he was doing, he pulled Cyrus in for a hug, his heart thudding painfully in his chest with a throbbing ache. “See? I knew you could.”

Cyrus was silent for a second, arms thrown around T.J.’s back, head poised over his shoulder.  Then, after what felt like a moment of contemplation, he said, quieter than T.J. had anticipated, “Thank you.  For everything, I mean.” T.J., much like last week at the Red Rooster, wasn’t sure what Cyrus was thanking him for exactly.  But it was enough for him to squeeze him a little tighter, to hug him longer than he probably should’ve. In T.J.’s opinion, he would’ve stayed locked in that embrace for a while, maybe even forever, but he abruptly pulled away when a string of voices broke through the piercing whistling of the wind, breaking their bubble of silence.  

“Who’s that?” Cyrus wondered aloud.  T.J. shrugged, his face suddenly feeling hot, and his eyes wove through the trees, his heart suddenly stopping in his chest when he recognized a startling wave of blonde hair.   _Please no._

Reed.

“I’ve gotta go,” T.J. said suddenly.  He wasn’t sure what was surging through him more: anger at his old friend or panic, panic from the possibility of Cyrus finding out, panic from Cyrus potentially seeing who he really was.  All T.J. knew was that he needed to _go_.  

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together.  “What?” T.J. slung his bag over his shoulder, not waiting for a response, his stomach clenching tight together in nerves.  “T.J., wait!”

Guilt found a way to him, but T.J. shoved it away, pushed through the trees and the strewn picnic tables and the gravel until he found himself at the swings, both hands clutching the chains.  He hadn’t been there since that one day, where he and Cyrus had skipped detention. He remembered what Cyrus had said, about how it made him feel better, and then T.J. remembered how it had made him feel better about his argument with Mr. Coleman. He hoped it worked again.  

T.J. dug his feet into the mulch and pushed off from the ground, swinging until the trees around him grew bleary, until the sky was so blue that his eyes hurt from staring at it.  The gust of wind roaring at his back tuned out everything else, but the swinging didn’t make the heaviness in his chest fly away, didn’t make him feel any lighter. How had swinging worked for him the last time?  Now it only seemed to make things _worse_.

 _Maybe because you had Cyrus with you last time,_ a nagging voice in his head reminded him.  T.J. sighed, then plowed his feet into the ground, effectively slowing him down.  He tried to shove it away, hated that the voice was right.  Cyrus always made him feel better about all the anger living in him, made it vanish into thin air.  

 _God_ , he so needed Cyrus right now.  

As if his wish had been granted by a fairy godmother (or God Himself, even), Cyrus came panting into his peripheral view, causing T.J. to jerk his head toward him in question.  The boy caught his breath, hands leaning on his knees as he attempted to speak.  “What…,” wheeze, “was that about?” Cyrus choked out, forcing the words out between breaths.

Suddenly at a loss for words, T.J. shrugged, toeing the mulch with his tennis shoe.  They were slightly mud stained and covered in grass from running through the park instead of on the trails, and he made a mental note to clean them later.

“T.J.,” Cyrus said seriously, taking a seat next to him.  T.J. glanced up, more out of habit than anything, but also at the way Cyrus said his name, like it had the weight of the world on it.  His stomach churned, and he tried to focus on Cyrus's slowing breathing rate instead. “What made you run away like that?”

T.J. looked back down at the ground at the words ‘run away’.  He wasn’t the type to run from his problems (unless they were his feelings; T.J. was more than skilled in getting away from those), and he felt angry with himself for letting Reed control him like this.  If anything, Reed should be scared of _him_ after what happened all those weeks ago.  Maybe it was the power Reed held over him, the fact that Reed could spill absolutely everything and ruin what he and Cyrus had.  A real friendship. Someone that didn’t make him worse, but better instead.

“You guys aren’t friends anymore, right?” Cyrus asked.  

T.J. nearly jolted out of his swing seat.  “What?”

“You and Reed,” Cyrus clarified with a sad smile.  “You’re not friends with him anymore, are you?”

T.J. shook his head, unable to process any thought except _how does he know?_ “How do you know we used to be friends?” T.J. asked bluntly.  

“You guys used to steal chocolate chocolate-chip muffins in the cafeteria together,” Cyrus explained with a half-smile.  Of _course_ that was how Cyrus remembered Reed. A muffin bandit.

In T.J.’s opinion, he was a lot worse than that, but Cyrus didn’t need to know the details of why.  “Yeah, we did,” T.J. said instead, humoring Cyrus with a huff out his nose.

“Do you not like him anymore?”

“Not really,” T.J. replied curtly.  _D_ _on’t ask why, don’t ask why, don’t ask—_

“How come?” Cyrus asked curiously.  

T.J. sighed, then kicked a pile of mulch near his foot.  It went flying in the air, spiraling onto the ground. “People grow apart, I guess.”  Lame. T.J. _knew_ it was lame. But Cyrus seemed to accept it instead of pushing further, which T.J. was more than grateful for.

“I don’t like him either, if that makes you feel any better,” Cyrus offered.  

T.J. glanced up, his eyebrow raised in question.  “How come you don’t like him?” Not that he blamed him.  

Cyrus’s nose wrinkled, and suddenly all of T.J.’s worries washed away, if just for a second.  “He says mean things to me sometimes," Cyrus admitted with a shrug, like it didn't matter.  T.J. frowned.  "Like on Monday! He cornered me in the locker room and said something had happened between you two a few weeks ago and then made a mean joke about me being in dance class."  T.J. stiffened beside him, his back completely rigid. “Weird, right?”

T.J. swallowed down, unable to meet Cyrus’s eye.  “Yeah,” he said, attempting to sound agreeable. “Weird.”  A beat of silence passed between them before the words that were pushing on the roof of his mouth fell out.  “Hey, Cyrus? Just…try to ignore Reed. He’s an idiot,” T.J. tried.

Cyrus was silent for a second.  “I will. But you should, too.  I’m sure whatever happened between you two wasn’t _that_ bad,” he said.  

T.J. nodded, spitting out the word again reluctantly.  “Right."  T.J. wasn’t so sure if he believed himself.  And he didn’t know if Cyrus would believe that if he knew exactly what really happened, either.  

That was the thing about friendship.  Sometimes your friends learned the best and worst parts of you, the sunshine and the barbed wire edges, and chose to stick around anyway.  And, sometimes, they left you broken, leaving you behind as if you were nothing. And, no matter how much T.J. wanted to lay everything on the table with Cyrus, he didn’t know if he’d be able to take that risk with him.  Maybe he’d never be able to take that chance at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happened in this chapter. What is Cyrus going to do about telling his friends? What is T.J. going to do about Reed? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below. It's so fun to read your theories!


	9. Reveal Who We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's...been a while. Well, 3 months, to be exact. But we're back! Summer was hard, especially with me coming to terms with Andi Mack ending and dealing with the fact that this was my last summer before high school is over, and I wasn't really in the best place to write, mentally and creatively. Anyway, thank you for your patience and dedication and comments and kudos and everything. I don't know how to express my gratitude. Hopefully things are more punctual and free flowing from now on on my end (because, let's be real, Di has had the art finished for this chapter for over a month and I've been stuck in my unmotivated spot for three long months!). 
> 
> Anyway, as always, please check out my partner Di's art has [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/187089129274/fic-by-cyrusgoodboye-art-by-me-chapter). I hope you enjoy all 11K words of this! Hope it makes up for the long wait. :)

Cyrus wasn't sure how he ended up here, sitting on a sticky blue-gray bus seat with T.J. Kippen while his best friend Buffy glared daggers into his back.  Well, _both_ of their backs, really.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did, had wanted to build up to it, wanted to ease them into the surprise of the news like too-hot bathwater (as much as he _loved_ suspense), but everything had boiled to the surface and it hadn't come out like he'd been hoping.  And now he'd ruined _everything_.

Cyrus had been wanting, _trying_ , all week to tell Buffy and Andi about T.J., about how he was friends with the same basketball captain that had made Buffy's life so miserable last year.  How this had started with exchanging some notes in detention, and now they had so much more than that. How T.J. was so different now that he couldn’t even believe it.  How, sometimes, when Cyrus was on the brink of exhaustion at night in his bedroom, he could see his feelings flickering out of the corner of his eyes, morphing into something else… 

(Well.  Cyrus tried not to think about the last part so much.  He wasn't sure his heart could handle another hopelessly straight crush like Jonah.)

But, even as good as Jonah was at being charismatic and buttering Andi and Buffy up, the universe would somehow counteract Cyrus's master plan to tell them, always unfoiling it before it even began… 

Like yesterday, for example: they were all hanging out after school, finishing up a school project in the science classroom.  (Jonah had dropped by ‘spontaneously,’ getting them all their usual orders from The Spoon. Cyrus loved planning ambushes, and this had happened to be the perfect opportunity!  How could they be mad at him about being friends with T.J. after _this_?  Cyrus knew _he_ wouldn't!)

“Hey, look at that!” Cyrus pointed out.  A hand hovered over his chest in feigned surprise.  “Jonah got us baby taters and milkshakes!”

Buffy and Andi shared a surprised glance.

"What's the catch?" Buffy asked cautiously, arching a challenging eyebrow.  

Cyrus shot Jonah a desperate look, silently pleading him with his eyes.  _Please don't mess this up!_

Jonah glanced wildly between Cyrus and the two girls before plastering on a smile that didn't fit his face quite right.  "Anything to help out my friends for their project!" Cyrus held his breath as he waited impatiently for their reactions.

Buffy seemed to mentally weigh his response, then shrugged as if it wasn't worth her sleuthing, attacking the bag of food while throwing her thanks over her shoulders as she dug in.  Andi joined her, happily surprised, and Cyrus and Jonah surveyed their work proudly at the far end of the classroom. 

“Don’t forget about the burgers, too!” Jonah added cheerily.  He leaned into Cyrus, whispering, “I was a few dollars short.”

Cyrus pulled out a few crisp bills from his wallet, handing them discreetly to Jonah.  Jonah slipped them into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for this, Jonah.”  

“No problem, dude!” he said, clapping Cyrus on the shoulder.  He flashed that dazzly smile that always made static buzz on Cyrus’s skin, and Cyrus smiled back widely, even though it didn't have seem to have the same effect as it usually did on him. 

 _Huh, weird,_ Cyrus thought absentmindedly to himself.  He shrugged it off.  

The Frisbee player side-hugged Andi, saying, “I’ll see you guys later,” before waltzing out the room, giving Cyrus a not-so-inconspicuous thumbs up. Cyrus returned it with equal enthusiasm.

“Okay, Cyrus, what was that about?” Buffy said, her eyebrows raised.  Her hip was jutted to the side, a hand resting on her waist.  

Andi sipped her milkshake, her lips pursing in confusion.  “What do you mean?”

Buffy snorted.  “That was obviously a set-up.  What is Jonah up to?”

A sense of panic flew into Cyrus’s chest, something like frantic bird wings beating in his chest, and he all-too-quickly defended the Frisbee player.  “Nothing! I’m sure Jonah was just being nice."  

Buffy eyed him suspiciously, as if she suspected that he was in on Jonah’s ‘scheme,’ too, but Cyrus was quick to recapture her attention.  

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you guys something,” he said, pushing the sentence out of his mouth.  Cyrus forced it out like they hurt, a wince springing up amongst his words, and he pursed his lips at his stiffness, eyebrows drawn together.

“Go on,” Buffy gestured, popping a baby tater into her mouth.  Andi nodded fervently, and Cyrus took it as a sign of encouragement.

“Okay,” he started, scooting up onto the desk behind him with a small hop.  “The truth is—”

“Cyrus, wait—!” A crash sounded behind him, and Cyrus jumped up, flinching instinctively.  _Oh, no…_

“Our project!” Andi gasped in horror.  Cyrus slowly turned around, a pit forming in his stomach.

“I’m sorry!” he immediately apologized, sinking down to the floor next to Andi, who was already salvaging pieces.  Embarrassment flamed his cheeks. “I forgot it was on _that_ desk,” he said.

Buffy glared at him.  “ _Cyrus_.”  

Cyrus hung his head.  “I know,” he said shamefully.  “ _I’ll_ rebuild it.  You guys eat your food.”  He had been too embarrassed to tell them afterwards, the footing of his confidence lost within the shards of paper and structured poster board scattered on the ground, so he shoved his confession down instead, let it drown in his embarrassment.  

And he'd tried plenty of times after that, but the universe wouldn’t let him get more than three words out without something drastic happening.  Even the next day, standing in the hallway with Jonah planning their next ambush (well, _Cyrus_ was planning, Jonah was listening, for the most part), he had known it was a lost cause.  It didn’t stop him from trying, though. He didn’t want to let T.J. down. Not more than he already had by keeping their friendship a secret.

"What are you going to do?" Jonah asked, curious.  His green eyes were wide, eyebrows raised and face earnest.  Jonah was always so genuine; even when he wasn't the best boyfriend—or friend, for that matter—his good intentions always bled through his dimples.  "We only have about—" Jonah glanced down at his wrist as if he were checking a watch, then remembered he didn't have one and resorted to clicking his phone on instead "—ten minutes until we leave for the field trip.  Won't they see you guys sitting together on the bus?" 

"Yes," Cyrus breathed out.  Anxiety flooded his voice, lungs drowning in his chest.  He half-expected his voice to melt right down his throat just from the tension straining his vocal cords.  "But I have to tell them. I promised," he said. Jonah nodded, hand squeezing Cyrus's shoulder once, then twice, before pulling away.  

“So...what do you want me to do, exactly?” Jonah asked, a hand resting on the single backpack strap slung on his shoulder.  "I'm no good at this stuff."

Cyrus shook his head.  "Of course you are! It's just...a wrench keeps getting thrown into our plans."  Jonah nodded like he sort of understood. Cyrus wondered if he was going to have to spell it out for him.  Sometimes he had to translate things for Jonah; things flew over his head sometimes, but Cyrus didn't mind explaining.  It was one of those adorably frustrating traits of his. Jonah kind of had a lot of those. "Anyway, all I want you to do is bring them over here for me."

“And…?”

Cyrus pursed his lips, worry seeping back into his voice like water with a sponge.  “And...that’s all I got.” 

Jonah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “That’s it? No more free food from The Spoon?  No more getting emergency supplies for Andi Shack?  No more carrying Buffy’s textbooks for her between classes?” he asked in disbelief.

Cyrus shook his head, lips tucked together.  Exasperation threatened to spill in him like pooling paint.  “Every time we try to butter them up, I always get interrupted!  I think we should just jump straight into it,” he explained. He tried not to feel discouraged, but it was hard not to; his feelings were always surging in the extremes, either climbing up to the tops of the Shadyside mountains or dwindling down to nothing.  

Jonah nodded slowly.  “Okay…well, I hope it works out, dude,” he patted Cyrus’s shoulder, and Cyrus tried not to feel swayed away by his touch.  “ _Seriously_.  I’m tired of going to the flea market everyday after school looking for wood beads.”

Cyrus drew his eyebrows together.  “I thought you liked going to the flea market with Andi.”

Jonah shrugged.  “Sometimes they have cool stuff.  A lot of the time, Andi’s just looking at feathers and pop tabs, and then she gets mad at me for not being attentive or whatever,” he explained, scrunching his nose in distaste.  Cyrus nodded understandingly, even though he thought it was fun to see Andi so excited about wood beads and pop tabs and used straws, but Jonah simply flashed that blinding smile in response.  “Anyway, I’ll go get them. See you in a sec.” Jonah said, hands stuck in his pockets. He waltzed away to retrieve the two girls, and Cyrus was desperately trying to thaw the block of ice stuck in his throat, trying to grasp onto any shred of hope he could find.

What if they reacted the same way they had when he befriended Amber last year, but worse?  What if they shunned him and kicked him out of the Good Hair Crew for _life_?  What if Jonah took his place?  Or Marty? Or what if— 

“ _Hello_?” a voice said, waving a hand in front of him.  “Earth to Cyrus!” Cyrus blinked, then shook himself out of his reverie.  _Buffy._

“Sorry,” he said, tugging on his shirt nervously.  The girls shared an amused smile, and Cyrus’s mood instantly brightened.  “You guys look like you’re in a good mood,” he noted happily to himself. His eyes cut to Jonah gratefully, but the Frisbee player was turned around, waving at a figure in the distance.  

“Yeah, of course we are,” Buffy said with a shrug.  “We get to rollerblade all day instead of working on a ten page worksheet for math proofs.  Who wouldn’t be excited about that? Right, Jonah?”

Jonah turned back to them, his mind clearly on the other side of the hallway, away from their bubble of conversation.  “Huh?”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Aren’t you excited for our field trip today?”

A look of realization crossed Jonah’s face a beat later than natural, and he let out a small laugh.  “Oh, yeah.  Right.” The three all exchanged a weird glance at his odd behavior, Andi especially. Cyrus tried not to care so much about it, even though his feelings for Jonah always tore through him like a bullet, always left his heart splintering.  Well, at least they _usually_ did.  He wasn’t so sure anymore.  Sometimes Jonah made him feel like he was on top of the world and others he made him feel like he was sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor.

“Well, _I_ for one am just hoping that I don’t injure myself this time,” Cyrus joked.  Andi laughed and Buffy rolled her eyes playfully; Andi hadn’t been allowed to go to his seventh birthday party because Celia had been afraid to let Andi do anything resembling adventure back then (she had gotten him binoculars for his present, though, which he still used to this day!), but Buffy had been there and they’d told the story so many times that it almost felt like Andi had been a part of the day anyway.  

“Don’t worry, Cyrus, we have a whole week of spring break after today just so you can recover from your injuries,” Andi reminded with a teasing smile.  Cyrus smiled, then saw Jonah staring at that figure in the distance again. He saw Andi frown out of the corner of his eye at her boyfriend.  

Jonah pointed behind him, gesturing to the same person, an outline of someone Cyrus couldn’t quite make out on his own.  “I’m gonna go talk to her. I’ll be right back,” he promised, flashing them a smile. A sour look crossed Andi’s face at the word ‘her,’ and Cyrus silently wondered what drama was going on with Jonah and Andi now.  With the two of them, it was _always_ hard telling.

Once Jonah was out of their sight, Buffy wrinkled her nose.  “Hasn’t Jonah seemed overly nice lately?”

“He’s a nice person,” Andi and Cyrus interjected simultaneously.  Andi cracked a smile at the coincidence, and Cyrus hoped that she didn't catch the sudden pink on his cheeks.  

“Yeah, but he’s been _especially_ nice to me lately,” Buffy explained, shivering in disgust.  “It’s weird! Like yesterday at lunch, when I made fun of him for saying ‘docious magocious’?  He offered to stop saying it! And I never thought _anything_ could make Jonah stop saying docious magocious."  Cyrus wished she weren’t so observant; his plans to tell them about T.J. all week were coming undone like thread in her hands.

“Maybe he’s had a change of heart!” Cyrus suggested, drawing her attention elsewhere.  His words rushed out in a way that made Buffy sweep over his face, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but Cyrus distracted her with an abrupt change of topic.  “Anyway, who cares what Jonah’s up to when the field trip is today?”

Buffy allowed herself to be swayed by the obvious subject change, even though the suspecting glint in her eye stayed present, lingering in the lines in her face like old, chipped paint.  “I bet I’ll be the best rollerblader out there,” she bragged, an arrogant smirk lighting up her face.  

Andi smiled, humoring her best friend.  “Not everything’s a competition, Buffy,” she gently reminded.  

“It _can_ be,” Buffy retorted.  

“Didn’t you _just_ twist your ankle a few days ago—?” Andi started, but Buffy purposely drowned her out, turning to Cyrus instead.  (Buffy had always had selective hearing problems, Cyrus was convinced. Whenever he pointed that fact out, she pretended not to hear him then, either.)

"Do you want to sit with me?" Buffy asked.  "I can ditch Marty if you want the company."  The offer should've set a wave of relief in him, that Buffy was willing to leave her boyfriend just to fill the ghost space that seemed to follow him wherever he went, but then that same guilt rose up, because Cyrus had to tell her that he _couldn't_ , that he was sitting with someone else, someone that was _T.J. Kippen_ , the guy who wouldn't let her on the basketball team.  The guy who was now Cyrus's friend, maybe one of his good friends.  Or maybe more than that.

He gulped, lips tucked together.  “ _Actually_ , about that—” He was cut off from the sound of a cell phone blaring that filled the now thriving hallway, excited chatter for the field trip beginning to bounce off the walls as their departure time drew nearer, and it took Cyrus a confused second to figure out that it was coming from Buffy's backpack.

“Sorry," Buffy said, twisting around to fish it out of her zipper.  "One sec." The words weighed on Cyrus’s tongue, his burst of confidence disappearing like the sun behind the horizon.  Buffy dug out her phone from her pocket, wrinkling her nose in confusion at who would be calling her this early in the morning.  A smile lit up her face as the Caller ID reflected in her eyes, and she tapped the accept button.  

“Hi, Mommy!” she greeted, voice pure light.  Cyrus thought that if there was one weak, vulnerable spot in the tough wall that Buffy built around herself, it was Pat Driscoll.  “Yes, I’ll take plenty of pictures,” she promised. Buffy rolled her eyes to Andi and Cyrus, but it betrayed the smile stuck on her face like a sticker.  He and Andi shared a knowing smile. “And I’ll say hi to Andi and Cyrus and Jonah for you.   _And_ Marty.  Okay. Love you, too.  Bye.” She hung up the phone, jamming it back in her pocket, and Cyrus felt any shred of confidence that had before sink down to his shoes.  

“Sorry about that,” Buffy started.  “She’s been busy with her job lately, and she’s already an hour away, so I haven’t been able to spend much time with her.”  She took in a shaky breath, and Andi and Cyrus shared a worried glance, but Buffy shook out her arms as if to rid herself of the thick tension suddenly swimming in the air.  “Anyway, it’s fine. What were you saying, Cyrus?”

“Oh, uh," he started, suddenly feeling that his confession was out of place, a mishaped puzzle piece trying to slot into the wrong spot.  “Um, I was just saying that I—”

“Dosh!” a voice lit up behind them.  They all turned to see Jonah talking to a cheerful Natalie, his hand on her shoulder.  He seemed to notice their questioning stare, then the judgemental look gleaming in Buffy’s eyes, and his face turned sheepish.  “I mean, uh, cool!”

Cyrus attempted to pull their attention away from the two, trying to sway it back to him.  _Please, please, please, just let me get the words out._ "What I was saying was that I'm—"

"Hey, Buffy!" a voice interrupted.  A flash of ruddy brown hair appeared behind Buffy, tennis shoe soles squeaking on freshly mopped tiles, and Cyrus internally grimaced.  He really liked Marty, don't get him wrong, but right now he wished more than anything that the track star was out on the field instead of in the hallway with them.  Once he got Buffy started, it was _impossible_ to stop her.  "Ready to be the _second_ best rollerblader on the rink?"

The competitive fire that constantly lived in Buffy's eyes ignited, Marty's comment fuel to her flame, and she crossed her arms boastfully.  "In your dreams.  Besides, I'm not planning on rollerblading.  I'm going to be _gliding_ the entire time.  You'll see nothing but my back the whole field trip."

"Guys, I'm sitting with—"

" _Jonah_ ," Andi waved, trying to gesture subtly with a ring-donned hand.  Jonah flashed Natalie an apologetic smile, then waved goodbye, turning to his girlfriend.  Cyrus swallowed. "I didn't know she went to school here," she remarked, her voice careful.  

"She just transferred here!" Jonah exclaimed happily.  His dimples lit up, deep enough to pour tea into. "Is that a problem?" he questioned, confused.

"Buffy, Andi—"

"I've been rollerblading since I was _six_ ," Buffy insisted, continuing.  "You'll be falling on your face within the first 30 minutes."

"What if she moved here because she likes you?" Andi accused.

"She's just a friend!" Jonah interjected.  

"I'm sitting with T.J. Kippen!" Cyrus burst.  His voice came out louder than he meant, and even the hallway seemed to pause, hands lingering on locker doors and conversations halted, half-finished and forgotten.  His cheeks flamed.  

His friends all turned to him, wide-eyed and jaws slack, faces drowning in surprise (even Jonah, who had known for weeks).  Cyrus held his breath for one, then two beats, before— 

" _What_?" Buffy said, face contorted in disgust.  The competitive flame that had been dancing in her eyes only seconds ago was gone, died out like it had been stomped out by his confession.  "Please tell me you're _joking_."

"Is _he_ your friend from detention?" Andi asked, stepping away from Jonah.  Her eyebrows were knitted together. "Is that why you didn't want to tell us?  Because it was _T.J._?"  She spat out his name like it burnt her tongue, and Cyrus felt a whirl of defensiveness in his belly.

"Part of it," he admitted, eyebrows scrunched together in worry.  He couldn't look Buffy in the eye. He focused on Marty and Jonah instead, both of whom seemed lost.  (Marty because he probably actually was, and Jonah because, well...that was just his face.)

Andi crossed her arms.  "I can't believe—" 

"—your detention buddy is T.J. Kippen!" Buffy finished.  Cyrus swept over her expression, and his heart sunk down to the floor at the betrayal jutting at her face, cold and cutting at him like sharpened steel.   

"I had no idea!" Jonah exclaimed with a tone that conveyed he absolutely _did_ have an idea.  Andi and Buffy whirled around to face him, then shot back to Cyrus.

"You told _Jonah_ first?" Andi exclaimed incredulously, gesturing to the boy.  

"It was an accident!" Cyrus stressed.

Jonah frowned.  "Hey, I'm trustworthy!"

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Sure you are, Jonah." She yanked Cyrus by the elbow, dragging him to the side and, even with a twisted ankle, was still stronger than Cyrus could ever wish for.  She stared him down, all business. "Listen to me, Cyrus. T.J. is _bad_ _news—_ "

"Because of your history in seventh grade?" Cyrus interrupted, finally gathering enough courage to defend himself.  It was stirring in his veins, inching up his arm like buzzing static. "Trust me, Buffy, he's a completely different person.  He's not the same guy who didn't let you on the basketball team!" He tried to search for any empathy in her eyes, but all that was there was her strong will and cold determination, smooth as glass.  He shivered.  

"It has nothing to do with that," Buffy insisted.  Her grasp on him was nearly strong enough to hurt. (He bruised easily, ask literally _anyone_.)  "I'll tell you if you just _listen_ to me—" 

"Buses have arrived for the field trip!" Dr. Metcalf announced over the intercom.  The static from the interference fizzled out, crackling and muffled through the decades old speakers, and Cyrus broke away from Buffy and her steel grip, shrugging her words out of his head.  

"I'm sorry," he said, lips pulled into a frown.  He felt like he should say more, get some of the words pressing on his chest out, but Buffy was looking at him like he'd broke her entire world with five words and Cyrus didn't know how to exactly put it back together.  "I'll see you there." He flashed her one last forlorn smile before turning away and heading toward the locker bay, pretending like invisible shrapnel wasn't digging into his skin with each step.  Because, apparently, no other feeling was worse than walking away from your friends after a fight, not that Cyrus would know, because they'd _never_ fought before, not like this.  He had absolutely _no_ clue what to do.  

 _But at least the truth is out!_ Cyrus tried to reason with himself.  

If only the truth didn't hurt so much….

He kept walking until he reached locker 153 and found T.J. stuffing his backpack inside it.  He glanced up as Cyrus neared, and he smiled, soft and gentle and amused all at once. Cyrus didn't know smiles could have that many shades to them, but T.J. was always changing his mind about stuff like that, flipping his world upside down.  

 _T.J. is bad news,_ Buffy had told him. 

Cyrus swallowed.  _T.J. is different now_ , he reasoned with himself.  He _knew_ he was!  T.J. was a good person, stood up for him and wrote him notes instead of laughing at him for getting detention for pulling the fire alarm and accepted all his weird quirks and annoying habits.  And Cyrus could see a light in him that sometimes he thought no one else could. 

“Hey, you ready?” T.J. asked.  He shut his locker door and moved next to Cyrus, putting a hand on the small of his back as if to guide him forward, and Cyrus remembered what he'd thought earlier, about how he could see his feelings flickering out of the corners of his eyes… 

He pushed the thought away.

“Ready as I’ll ever be!” Cyrus told him.  T.J.’s smile widened, and Cyrus let T.J. push him forward through the front exit and toward the bus, pretending like he wasn’t boarding his ultimate doom.  

And now he was here in his seat, trying not to let himself crumble every time they hit a pothole.  It was like there was this black hole inside him, growing wider and wider whenever they ran over one of them on the road.  Or maybe his guilt was _actually_ trying to eat him alive.  Cyrus was pretty sure there would be nothing left of him by the time they got to the rollerblading rink.  

He turned around to face Buffy, unable to help himself.  She glared at him over the brim of the seat, her eyes flickering to T.J. pointedly.  Cyrus had been friends with her so long that he could practically have a conversation with her on facial expressions alone.

 _I’m sorry_ , he mouthed, eyebrows scrunched together in worry.  

Buffy pursed her lips and crossed her arms, eyes skipping over to the window.  Cyrus turned around dejectedly in his seat.  She was never going to forgive him, was she?

He snuck one last glance at her over the top of the seat, catching her frowning at the her reflection in the glass.  Cyrus faced forward and fiddled with his hands in his lap. _Nope.  Never._

* * *

The bus hit another pothole in the road, tires screeching on the asphalt, and Cyrus’s hand gripped the seat space in between them, clutching onto it like a lifeline.  

“You okay?” T.J. asked, nudging Cyrus’s shoulder next to him.  Something stirred in his stomach at the contact.  

The bus went around a corner, and Cyrus's hands flew out, latching onto T.J.’s arm.  That funny feeling surged through T.J.’s stomach, rolling over like waves in a tide, and ignored the itch in his palm to grab Cyrus’s hand.

Cyrus nodded, lips pulled into a tight line, and T.J. silently wondered if he was afraid to open his mouth in fear of biting his tongue off.  “This bus driver’s a maniac!” he exclaimed. “I’m pretty sure he has a lead foot.”

The bus driver—Larry, the nametag read—glared, eyes catching Cyrus’s wide ones in the reflection of the mirror.  Cyrus slouched down further in his seat, letting go of T.J.’s arm in the process.  

T.J. pretended not to care so much.  He hoped his face got the memo. “Seriously, are you okay?  You’ve been looking nervously behind us ever since we boarded the bus.” 

Cyrus sighed, lips in a pout.  “It’s Buffy. She refuses to talk to me!”

T.J. raised an eyebrow.  “Why?”  

Cyrus averted eye contact, leaning his head up against the seat in front of them.  His hair ruffled against the cheap plastic material. “I told her and Andi. About us, I mean.”

T.J.’s heart stuttered in his chest at the word _us._ He swore his organs were certified in gymnastics after being friends with Cyrus for a while now.  They were constantly flipping like they were trying to do a somersault or something. “And…?” he pressed on.  

“And…,” Cyrus continued, sighing, “It didn’t go as well as I _hoped_ it would.”  He peeked at T.J. hesitantly, like he was waiting to see his emotions bleed through, but T.J. just sighed.  He wanted to lash out, wanted to let anger fill him up until he couldn’t see straight, but he remembered that small conscience he had now, how there was this nice person on the inside trying to beat its way out of his chest, and he pushed it all down instead.  

“Yeah.  I figured it wouldn’t go that great,” T.J. grimaced.  

Cyrus straightened up with an apologetic frown, such a genuine look pooling in his eyes that T.J. wondered if he was holding the whole universe in them.  “Don’t worry, T.J., I’m sure they’ll get over it!” he tried, and T.J. let an amused huff out of his nose.

“Cyrus, it’s fine.  I haven’t been the nicest to Buffy.  Or any of them, really.” He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to Buffy, until it hit him like a train, and then all those memories ran through his head, pressed on his brain like a paperweight.  He didn’t want to think about _that_ day.  Not really.

“Well, I’m going to stick by your side anyway,” Cyrus told him.  T.J. smiled through the sudden pain swimming in his chest. “You’re a completely different person!  I just have to convince them.” He looked ahead as if he were in thought, then turned to T.J. “Oh, maybe you can come to Ren Fair with us!”

T.J.’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.  “What now?”

“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just ask me that,” Cyrus said.  T.J. snorted. “It’s a festival they hold in the park where you dress up like you’re in the Renaissance!  My friends and I go every year,” Cyrus informed proudly.  T.J. loved that.  How Cyrus made everything he did sound like the best thing in the world.  

“Sounds cool,” T.J. told him.

“It is!  And you should come!  If you do, they’ll get a chance to warm up to you,” Cyrus suggested.

T.J. relented.  “When is it?”

“Saturday.”

Saturday?  He hoped it was after his...thing.  

Well, he could miss _one_ Saturday.  Right?

“I’m there.”  He smiled, then caught Buffy’s stare a few seats back, and he turned around and waved at her.  She glared, and he dropped his hand, shrugging. “Yeah, she _definitely_ hates me,” T.J. sighed. 

Cyrus let out a sad smile that made T.J. feel a lot better than he was willing to admit.  “Don’t worry. It’ll all smooth over in a week. Promise!”

 _I’ll have to take your word for it_ , T.J. thought to himself.  

* * *

The bus ride eventually ended (many more potholes being hit on the way), and Cyrus automatically frowned as soon as they stepped through the door.  He looked even intimidated by the 90’s styled carpet popping against the peeling wallpaper.  

“T.J., are you sure about this?  I can’t—”

“You can."  He slung an arm around his shoulders, and the worry lines between Cyrus’s brow softened the smallest bit as students filed around them.  T.J. took it as a small victory. “I’ll help you.  C’mon, let’s go find your shoe size.”

After gathering their rollerblades at the counter, they sat down in the chairs outside of the rink, skates in hand.  T.J. immediately slid his on and adjusted the laces and velcro strap attached. Cyrus frowned down at his dinosaur socks as he attempted to tug his own pair on.  

“What’s wrong?” T.J. asked, putting the strap of his left skate on.  He glanced up at Cyrus, his eyebrows scrunched together in that familiar way that T.J. liked so much.

“I don’t know how to put these on,” he whined.  

T.J. laughed under his breath, then gestured with his hands.  “Here, I’ll help. Give me your foot.”

Cyrus propped his foot onto T.J.’s knee, sort of seeming used to being helped like this—and he probably was, knowing him—but T.J. was so, so _not_ , and his heart was fluttering in his chest like a butterfly, as cheesy and lame as it sounded.  

He tugged it over Cyrus’s sock, forcing his foot into the skate until it hit the sole, and adjusted the laces, pulling up the tongue and securing it with the strap.  

Cyrus seemed impressed.  “You are _good_ at this,” he remarked.  “You should be a professional rollerblade putter on-er or something.”

T.J. smiled mirthfully.  He dropped Cyrus’s foot to the ground and pulled the other one into his lap.  “Is that even a real job? Or a real word?”

“It is now because you have it!”

T.J. snorted, hands fiddling with the strap.  “I hope its hours are flexible with my basketball schedule.”  He set his foot back onto the ground and smiled. “All set.”

“Thanks!” Cyrus told him with a beam.  He stood up, ankles immediately toppling sideways, not quite used to the string of wheels strapped onto his feet.  T.J. caught him by his arms and pretended the weight of them weren't like sizzling coals pressing into his palms.  

“Wow, you made it look so easy!” Cyrus wheezed out, probably trying to get his heart started again, by the looks of it.  

“You’ll get it down.  Don’t worry.” T.J. stood up beside him and moved his hands to Cyrus’s waist, raising an eyebrow.  “Ready to go into the rink?”

Cyrus’s eyes flickered worriedly between T.J. and the skaters already inside.  “Already? Shouldn’t we give everyone else a head start?”

“I won’t let you fall,” T.J. promised.  “Do you trust me?”

Cyrus took a deep breath, worry shifting into something else, softening at the edges.  He exhaled, letting a small smile curve his mouth. “Yes.  Of course I trust you.”

T.J. smiled, tried not to let his relief seep through his face.  Some probably spilled through anyway; around Cyrus, he found it hard to control anything.  _Especially_ his emotions.  “Good. Let’s go.”

He helped Cyrus onto the rink, hands steadying on his shoulders from behind as Cyrus walked with shaky, unsure steps.  He gripped the rail as soon as he reached it.  

“Are you gonna let go of that or we just going to stand here the entire time?” T.J. asked, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Cyrus pretended to contemplate it for a second before pursing his lips.  “Nope!” he admitted, popping the ‘p’.  “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never be able to rollerblade.  It’s on my list.”

T.J. raised an eyebrow.  “Your list?”

Cyrus sighed out of his nose, almost like he was embarrassed.  “It’s a list of things that I should be able to do but can’t.”  

T.J. paused for a second at the information Cyrus had just revealed to him.  He wished he could show Cyrus every thought he'd ever had about him, how he thought Cyrus could do absolutely anything he wanted to.  He grabbed Cyrus’s forearms instead and tugged him close.  “Well, I’m gonna help you cross this one off.” Cyrus bit his lip, fear shining in his eyes like sputtering flames.  “You trust me, remember? I said I wouldn’t let you fall.”

“That’s what someone who’s about to let you fall would say,” Cyrus said back with an easy tilt to his voice, his eyebrows raised incredulously.  Nevertheless, he allowed T.J. to guide him away from the rail, his knuckles white, fingers curled tightly around T.J.’s forearms. “Woah! This is scary,” he told him, chuckling nervously.

“It is,” T.J. agreed.  He held him closer than necessary and told himself it was for Cyrus's sake, but T.J. wasn't sure if he believed himself or not.  “Hey, I’m gonna help you. It’ll be okay. Promise.”

Cyrus nodded, that cold fear in his eyes dimming, and he swallowed.  “Okay, if you say so. I have complete faith in you.”  

The words shouldn't have burned T.J. up like it did, but the hairs on his arms were singed and he was drowning in flames.  He gripped Cyrus tighter, hoping the feeling would subside. “Ready?”

Cyrus nodded once firmly, sudden determination flaring up in him like a beacon.  “Ready.”

It wasn’t the greatest at first.  Skates were ramming into skates, ankles were going sideways, and they were barely dodging into classmates that were circling the rink like it was nothing.  

T.J. didn’t think he had smiled so much in his life. 

Cyrus was so, so eager to learn, and T.J. was trying to be a good teacher, as good as he could possibly be.  He didn’t get mad when Cyrus slipped up or ran into him on accident, and he didn’t let him fall, at least, which was a good sign.  

Plus, he got to hold onto Cyrus pretty often.  He’d say it was going pretty well.

It wasn't long until Dr. Metcalf stopped them for lunch, and Cyrus climbed out of the rink with wobbly steps.  T.J. pulled off his blades for him, and he wiggled his toes in his socks like he’d just discovered he could use them for the first time.

“Much better!” Cyrus said.  T.J. laughed and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the Dr. Metcalf, who was passing out sack lunches with their half-asleep English teacher.  

Their principal handed each of them a paper bag distastefully.  “You two having fun?”

T.J. turned to Cyrus and smiled.  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Great,” Dr. Metcalf said.  His voice betrayed his words.  “Anyway, don’t burn the place down before we leave or else you’ll both have detention for life.”  He plastered on a sarcastic smile, and T.J. shook his head, rolling his eyes as he walked over to a table with Cyrus.

“He acts like we’re criminals or something,” T.J. snorted.

“Well, we are.  We broke the school code!” 

T.J. scoffed.  “I don’t think accidentally pulling a fire alarm is against the rules, Cyrus.”

Cyrus unrolled his sack lunch, pulling out an apple that had seen better days.  “They’ll probably draft it into the rulebook just for me,” he told T.J. “It’ll die with me.  Besides, skipping math class isn’t _super_ horrible.  I’ve skipped gym before.”

 _Skipping math class._ T.J. had almost forgotten he’d told him that all those weeks ago.  His stomach turned uneasily, and he forced on a smile that felt too tight for his mouth.  “Of course you have, Underdog.”

A round of laughter erupted from behind them, and Cyrus cast his eyes to the source of the noise.  He frowned down at his bag of carrots. T.J. followed his line of sight, seeing Andi, Jonah, Buffy, and some other guy he didn’t know the name of giggling at each other.  

He nudged Cyrus’s foot under the table.  “Go talk to them.”

Cyrus raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “What?”

“Go,” T.J. said again.  Cyrus looked unsure. “Come on, I know you want to.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Cyrus protested, poking at his juice carton.  T.J. rolled his eyes, amused even though the sentiment still bounced around in his chest anyway.  T.J. didn’t think he’d want to be away from Cyrus ever.  Even when he _did_ go into full therapist mode.  

“I’ll be fine,” T.J. insisted.  “Seriously.”

Cyrus finally cracked under his words.  "Thanks. Be right back." He sent him one last thankful smile as he pushed himself up out of his seat.  T.J. wanted to memorize how he looked right then, anxious and grateful and relieved all at once, dark hair all ruffled and face flushed from rollerblading.  He tried to make it stay in his brain. T.J. had always had a problem with making things stick, especially numbers, but it had never really been problem with Cyrus.  It was like he could do it without trying, like he was always meant to do it in the first place.

It even sounded cheesy in T.J.’s head.  But he couldn't particularly bring himself to care.  Not right now, at least.

He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully, pretending like he didn’t keep glancing behind him to see how Cyrus was doing.

* * *

“Hey,” Cyrus greeted cautiously, sitting down in one of the dozens of plastic white chairs scattered across the floor.  Buffy looked up, smile faltering as she met his gaze. 

Andi grabbed Jonah’s hand and stood up, glancing awkwardly between them.  “We’ll give you some privacy." She offered Cyrus a tentative smile. He knew she didn’t feel that great about T.J. either, but he was glad she was trying, at least.  He returned it. 

“Why?” Jonah whispered to her as she tugged him away.  Andi shushed him and led him to the arcade games off to the side, and Buffy rolled her eyes at the Frisbee player.  

The air was stiff between them, and Cyrus pressed on hesitantly.  The silence was so heavy he could feel it on his shoulders. “Where did Marty go?  He was here just a second ago.”

Buffy shrugged, like nothing he said could faze her.  Cyrus was determined to not leave this able until she broke.  “Bathroom. Not that it matters.” It came out disinterested, flat, and it was hard to find anything in Buffy’s face other than the hard stone of her eyes, but Cyrus made out a glimmer of betrayal and hurt under her mask, something that he was sure a stranger wouldn’t have been able to find.  He almost laughed to himself, remembering how intimidated he'd been by her when they were little. It was a kind of intimidation that he’d let be overshadowed by his admiration, adoring how strong and fierce Buffy had been, even when they were seven.

Cyrus tried a different approach.  “Buffy, do you remember that friend application I gave you in second grade?”

He swore her eyes softened, just for a second.  She shifted in her seat, setting down the apple that had been perched in her hand.  “Maybe. Why?”

“Well, before I ‘applied’ for our friendship,” he explained, crooking his fingers, “I was intimidated by you.”

“So?”

“So,” Cyrus continued, “I was scared of you because of how bold you were.  And because you hit me with a shovel in the sandbox,” he added on as a joke.

Buffy cracked a smile and leaned forward slightly, and Cyrus knew he was breaking down the shield glinting in her eyes, shattering it push by push.  

“And everyone was scared to be your friend, too, because even then we all knew who would beat us if we all went _Lord of the Flies_ on each other.  But I also saw all the good qualities in you, and that made me want to be your friend.”

Her smile stopped then, her eyes glinting in realization at what he was saying, and she pulled away from him.  “Cyrus, don’t pull this psychology stuff on me to get me to like T.J. This situation is different than that!”

“ _How_ is it different?” Cyrus asked, and it came out a little exasperated because he was tired of having to justify everything he did, just wished his friends would trust him with his decisions.  He knew he was Cyrus, who was scared of everything and messed up and meddled, but he also mended things and found the good when no one else could see it. He knew he did. And he wished Buffy would see that, just this once. 

“It just is!” she retorted.  Cyrus pursed his mouth. “Listen, I swear this isn’t even about the basketball team stuff from seventh grade.  I have to tell you what happened a few weeks ago.” she started.  

Cyrus's eyebrows drew together, pulse thrumming under his skin as worry began to creep in on him.  _What happened a few weeks ago that so desperately requires my attention?_ He opened his mouth to ask, but a hand pulled Buffy out of her seat, and Cyrus swallowed down the questions on his tongue.

“Come on, we still haven’t raced,” Marty reminded her teasingly.  Her eyes glazed over for a second, the fire of competition that lived in her dancing in them, but she shook herself out of it.

“Wait, Cyrus—” 

He held up a hand to stop her, gave a small smile despite the nerves eating at him.  

“It’s fine,” he told her, suddenly wanting to get away from the table, from _this_ , this conversation.  The room felt small, walls closing in on him, and, boy, was it hot in here?  “Go race.”

Buffy seemed worried, but Marty put an arm around her shoulders and led her back onto the rink, and Cyrus stumbled back over to his table with T.J.  

“Everything okay?” T.J. asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Cyrus breathed out.  He didn’t want to think about what Buffy said.  T.J. couldn’t have done anything wrong, wouldn’t of, not when they were friends, right?  Still, his mind couldn’t help but wonder… “Ready to go skate again?”

“Yeah,” T.J. said, standing up.  He tossed their trash into a garbage can beside them.  "You sure you’re okay?” He squeezed Cyrus's shoulder, and his heart started beating faster than it already was.  Cyrus chose not to dwell on why.

“Teej,” he stressed.  He thought he saw T.J. slightly smile at the nickname, and a swell of pride filled up his chest.  He’d always liked coming up with nicknames for people. “I’m fine. Come on, you still have to show me how to rollerblade!”

T.J. smiled back, and maybe it was just how the disco lights by the rink hit him just then, but his teeth seemed to almost dazzle.  “You’re right, you’re right,” he relented fondly. And, as T.J. helped him put on his skates and coaxed him back into the rink, hand pressing against his back the whole way, Cyrus just let himself pretend that this was his normal.

* * *

T.J. stood away from the rail, rolling back and forth on his skates in impatience.  They'd been working on this for hours, and Cyrus _almost_ had it.  He knew it.

"C'mon, Cyrus, you can do it!" T.J. called over, hands cupped around his mouth.  

"Are you sure?"  His eyes were hooded, clouded over with disbelief, like even if T.J. had all the faith in the world in him, it still wouldn't be enough.  "This body was _not_ built for rollerblading."

T.J. raised an eyebrow fondly.  "Was it built for basketball?"

Cyrus shook his head fervently.  "Nope! It was built for watching Internet videos on a foam mattress."

"Well, you shot a basketball the other day," he countered.

Cyrus tilted his head to the side, considering something for a moment.  "Touché." He smiled, and T.J. returned it. 

"You just gotta slowly let go of the rail, okay?  Trust your instincts."

Cyrus slowly leaned forward, one hand slowly inching away.  T.J.gestured forward encouragingly. "I think instincts are only given to the coordinated," Cyrus replied, brows furrowed together.  His hand dropped off completely, the other one clutched to the side knuckles white. The veins surging beneath his wrist were visible under his skin.  

T.J. rolled forward.  He held his arms out cautiously.  "I got you, Cyrus." Cyrus met his gaze, and now T.J. was sure he was looking into the universe.  He wanted to get closer, even though he knew he shouldn't.

Without glancing away from his gaze, Cyrus swallowed.  With a shaky hand, he let go of the rail completely. He stumbled at first, and T.J. flew over, ready to catch him, but Cyrus's arms shot out to steady himself.  He looked down in disbelief, then his eyes shot back up to T.J., surprised and ecstatic all at once. 

"I'm still standing!" he exclaimed.  Cyrus beamed so wide that T.J. thought the lights washing over the rink dimmed in comparison. 

"Niceburg!" T.J. stated back, grin just as big.  He held up a hand, trying to convey how proud he was without doing something stupid like—well, he probably shouldn't finish that thought—and Cyrus went ecsatically to return it.  But, in a blink, he toppled over, tripping over his own skates.  T.J. blindly reached out, catching him without really even seeing him, and suddenly Cyrus was in his arms, breathless and heart pounding against T.J.'s chest, because T.J. could feel it right then, how Cyrus's pulse was ready to leap out of his skin.  And maybe his own was, too, even.

They slipped into a moment softer than before, blurry at the edges, and that all too familiar funny feeling filled up in him like drawing up water from a well.  T.J. didn't want it to go away this time, just wanted to stay right here in this moment with Cyrus forever. He thought that if he moved, it would break like fragile glass underneath his fingertips. 

"See?  I got you," T.J. finally managed to get out.  Anything more seemed like too much, even though his brain wanted to say _more_ , a lot of things that T.J. hadn't even let himself tread in fear that he'd drown, sink in his feelings and confusion and words that just wouldn't stop spinning in his head like the planets orbiting around the sun.  He knew how to put it into words, but didn't, _couldn't_ admit it to himself.  Couldn't admit that his confusion was because of something a lot different than friendship.  Couldn't admit that he was— 

"Look!"  A string of laughter that felt sharp and aimed in their direction erupted from just outside the rink, and T.J. steadied Cyrus before pulling away, a flame of something he was much too accustomed to flickering in him like a lighter catching on an oil rag.  His cheeks were hot, his chest numb in shame.  

The laugh sounded again, like it was bouncing off the walls until hot anger pooled in his mouth like curling smoke.  T.J. whirled around and caught the figure out of the corner of his eye. He knew who it was without looking directly, could detect that streak of anger that roared in his chest all the same.  His fists are clenched, a string of words that he probably shouldn't use building in the back of his throat.

A hand grabbed at his arm, and T.J. jerked toward the figure in question.  His face lost some of its steel, the sharpness pulling at his features, and he softened slightly.  It was just Cyrus. Not… 

Not Reed. 

If Reed had been the one who touched him, T.J. would've…

Well, he wasn't sure what he would've done, not right now at least.  But he knew what he would've done a month ago…  

"T.J.," Cyrus started, and T.J. pushed down the red climbing in his throat, letting his attention be pulled to Cyrus. "Remember what we said at the park?  We said we'd ignore him."

T.J. let the words roll around his head, wanted to let them melt the fists at his sides.  But he couldn't, not when _he_ was right there, staring and pointing and making him feel like…like he was… 

His heart turned hard.  From anger or fear, T.J. wasn't sure.  Maybe both.  

"You told me he wasn't worth it.  Let's keep rollerblading," Cyrus suggested.  He tugged at T.J.'s wrist, and everything felt like it was pushing at T.J. at once, like how he wanted to intertwine their hands and pretend that this was okay.  How he wished he could be as strong as Cyrus was and tune them out, pretend like they didn't exist. How he wanted to do a lot of things with Cyrus in general and didn't want to feel different for it, didn't want it to have to _matter_.    

Cyrus was still talking, but T.J. didn't hear him; his head was still on the other side of the room, was still hearing that cold laughter that seemed to fill up the entire rink.  He tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears, and it was just like that day at the swings all those weeks ago, when he'd felt like he was being pulled in every direction, so many thoughts whirring around in his head that he'd thought his skull would crack, split right open.  

His senses were too sharp, too aware, almost, and all he could think to do was to splash cold water on his face and make all his thoughts disappear right down the drain. Make himself disappear, too.  

"I gotta go to the bathroom," he said abruptly, tearing away from Cyrus.  T.J. skated his way to the exit and ripped off his rollerblades, tossing them to the floor below, trying to drown everything around him _out._

"T.J.!" Cyrus protested behind him.

T.J. stopped in his tracks, turned his head and looked back at Cyrus, words flying in his head until he couldn't think straight.  He noticed his eyebrows scrunched in that painfully familiar way, lips pursed together in worry, Cyrus saying his name like it _mattered_.  And something seemed to slot into place in his brain for the first time, something he'd been trying to fight off ever since he'd seen Cyrus that very first day, before they'd even met.

_I like Cyrus Goodman._

He whipped his head around as the words flashed in his head and pushed his way through the bathroom door, his confession dancing tauntingly behind his eyelids as he took wobbly footsteps on cracked tiles.  His hands clutched the sides of the cold porcelain of the sink, and he looked at himself in the mirror above it, frantic eyes and wild hair staring back at him. 

He had a crush on _Cyrus_.  

The thought had risen up in him like the sunrise over the course of their friendship, had flashed in his head in fleeting glimpses of light every once in a while, made him ask _what if?,_ and now it was just _there_ , blinding and glaring and impossible to ignore.  

But it was the only thing that made _sense_.  All that smiling, his heart practically doing gymnastics in his freaking chest, that funny feeling that would flood his stomach every time Cyrus so much as _looked_ at him?  Why T.J. had always been watching him, even before they'd met in detention that day?  

Of course he liked Cyrus.  

Hadn't he always?

His stomach turned over, and he clutched the sides of the sink harder, staring down the drain, found it hard to meet his own eyes.   God _,_ what was _wrong_ with him?

Cyrus had said there was nothing wrong with him when they found out about his trouble with numbers.  But Cyrus was _wrong_.  There were lots of things wrong with him, a lot that Cyrus didn't even know about, and T.J. wasn't good or nice or _anything_ like that.  Anything good that Cyrus had stirred in him always got snuffed out as easily as it came, because good things couldn't live in someone who was like _him_ , messed up and bad and twisted.  

Angry tears pricked at his eyes, and T.J. pressed the heel of his hand to them, choking down the lump stuck in his throat.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

The door opened, and T.J. jerked his head up in the mirror, half-expecting it to be Cyrus himself.  

Except it wasn't.  The opposite, really.

"What are you doing here?" T.J. asked, staring at him in the reflection of the glass.  It came out more annoyed, exasperated, broken and T.J. was half-surprised none of his angry tears bled through like watercolor on canvas.  He remembered what Cyrus had said.

_Don't let him get to you._

With T.J.'s past, that had never worked before, but he was willing to try.  If not for himself, then for Cyrus, at least.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't T.J. Kippen," Reed said.  It was mocking and annoyingly smug, just subtle enough to make T.J.'s skin itch.  

He whirled around from the mirror and faced Reed, arms crossed in front of his chest to put a barrier between them.  Or maybe to contain himself. Maybe both.  

T.J. clenched his jaw shakily, putting up a front that he knew wasn't exactly convincing.  That lump in his throat still pressed against his vocal chords, ached whenever he swallowed.  "What do you want?" He tried to make it sound like he didn't care, like this was a casual conversation with casual words and casual meanings, but there was always something more with Reed, something hiding underneath the surface.  Fear pressed against his chest, but he let bitter anger fill the spaces instead, let himself hide behind it before Reed would see him—God forbid— _cry_.  

Reed huffed haughtily, but something humorless was ringing in his eyes, in his very voice.  For once, T.J. didn't recognize who he was looking at in a frightening kind of way. Or maybe he did.  Maybe that was worse. "You see, I just don't understand why you'd throw away our whole friendship for a guy like him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" T.J. asked, but he _knew_.  And he also knew that Reed knew something, more than he was letting, and that same numb feeling plunged into his stomach, and T.J. wanted nothing more than to be swallowed up by a black hole right then.  

"You know what I mean."

T.J. flexed his jaw.  "Who cares?" he said. He tilted up a shoulder defensively, but he wasn't sure how it was coming across to Reed, Reed who was his best friend for years, could detect T.J.'s weaknesses and habits and deflections as easily as he could his own.  "He's my friend."

Reed snorted, and something jostled in T.J.'s stomach uneasily at how familiar the noise was.  Had it always sounded so contorted, twisted? "And what will everyone else think about that?"  

T.J. swallowed, stayed silent.  He'd been trying the last few weeks to push everyone else out of his head, to not pay attention to their stares and questions and silent judgements.  Most of all, he'd been trying to keep his own questions and judgments out of his head, but Reed was making it more difficult than it had been for a while, made it hard to even breathe.  

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Reed finished.  He turned around on his heels and headed out the door, leaving the air blasting through the vents feeling smug and heavy on T.J.'s shoulders, and T.J. wasn't sure how to move his feet from the floor, how to face everyone out there.  Because what if they _knew_? What if Reed told people, told them what T.J. had just admitted to himself, or what he still couldn't confess quite yet?  

The worst part was that all T.J. wanted was for Cyrus to come in and snap him out of this, break him out of this living nightmare and make everything good again like he always did.  But he couldn't tell him.  He just couldn't, not now, not ever.  

T.J. inhaled deeply and forced himself out the door, and the whole world felt like it was sitting on his shoulders just like it used to. 

* * *

Cyrus was worried.

Generally, he was _constantly_ worrying.  About school, his friends, his impending college status (who cared if he was only thirteen—well, almost fourteen—anyway?  He wanted to get into an Ivy League, sue him!). But, right then, his brain couldn't help but fire questions at him, asking _where_ T.J. had gone, and _why_ he'd run off, and what he could do to _fix_ it.

Cyrus sighed to himself.  He didn't know _how_ to fix it.  How could he help if it seemed like T.J. was keeping things from him, keeping him and Reed's past friendship hidden behind a thin veil?

He felt like he was missing too many pieces of information.  T.J. was confident, and Cyrus didn't think he'd let Reed's taunting get to him, except he _had_ , and more than once.  What was T.J. not telling him?

Not for the first time since they'd become friends, Cyrus couldn't help but wonder what T.J. meant when he said he ate alone at lunch, or why he never saw him stealing muffins with his friends from the basketball team anymore.  What exactly had happened to make him and Reed rivals, anyway? Cyrus felt like he lived under a rock at times, but he was pretty well involved in Jefferson Middle School gossip—or he _had_ been last year, when Jonah had been dating Amber, at least—but wouldn't he have heard about something big like that happening?  The captain of the basketball team and one of his teammates having a major rift seemed like pretty big news to Cyrus. 

He wandered aimlessly out of the rink (nearly tripping on his way out, of course, with _his_ luck) and plopped down in one of the plastic white chairs from earlier, pulling at the knots and straps T.J. had fixed on there for him.  How had T.J. even put these on? How would he even be able to take them _off_?  It was like they were permanently glued to his feet!

A shadow loomed over him, blocking the overhead lights from hitting him, and a sigh sounded above.  Cyrus glanced up, eyebrows drawn together.

 _Buffy_.

A sort of half-smile pulled at his mouth.  Maybe he'd gotten through to her after all!  Maybe she realized that T.J. wasn't so bad anymore and that they could move past this, could all be friends!

Or at least Cyrus _hoped_ so.  Buffy wasn't really the forgiving type.  She held grudges close to her chest like a hand of poker cards.  If there was a competition about who could hold a grudge the longest, Buffy would _definitely_ win.

"Do you need help?" she asked, slightly exasperated.  She sunk down in the chair across from him before Cyrus could even answer, and he let out a grateful sigh of relief.  

" _Yes_ , thank you," he told her.  Cyrus plopped down his foot into her lap carelessly, wheels digging into her thighs, and Buffy winced (more out of annoyance than pain, Cyrus was pretty sure), undoing the straps and laces for him.

"Cyrus…," she started, and Cyrus's stomach dropped, all too familiar with her tone.  She was trying to break something easily to him, but Buffy was as blunt as a hammer and usually dropped him in scalding water whenever she tried to give him bad news.  He shook his head fervently, worry winding in his chest.

" _Please_ , Buffy," he pleaded, a slight pout settling on his face.  "I don't know if I can do this right now. I have to find T.J."

An aggravated scoff drew from her lips, and she tugged off his skate, tossing it onto the floor.  He pulled it from her lap. "Cyrus, did T.J. even tell you _why_ he got detention?"

The question took him by surprise.  What did this have anything to do with what she was going to tell him earlier?  "Yeah," he said slowly, lips pursed. "He kept skipping math class.  Why?"

She sighed exasperatedly.  "That's what I was trying to tell you, Cyrus!  He's been _lying_ to you."

The world turned bleary.  Cyrus swallowed, then tried to blink the blurriness out of his eyes.  _No, T.J. wouldn't…would he?_ "I don't understand—"

"He and Reed got in a fight in the gym!" she interrupted.  

And then the world stopped completely. 

"They were talking and then T.J. started punching him out of nowhere.  Coach Bag had to break them apart, but he almost had to get the school resource officer as backup," Buffy continued, rushed it out all in one breath.

" _How_ do you know that?"  Cyrus pretended to study the laces on his other rollerblade, ran his eyes over it while trying to blink the sudden pooling in his eyes.  T.J. couldn't, _wouldn't_ have lied to him.  They were _friends_ , they _trusted_ each other— 

Well.  Maybe the trust had been one-sided after all.  Cyrus swallowed against the lump in his throat, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to inhale a deep breath.  The tightness in his chest didn't want to go away, stuck to him like stubborn duct tape.  

"I'm in that gym class, Cyrus.  I saw it happen.  Trust me!"

Cyrus stared down at his hands, refusing to let the tears filling in his eyes to escape.  He remembered that day T.J. grabbed his hand, both of them running through the hallway like they were on clouds, and he closed his palms, willing the memory to go away before he really _did_ cry in front of everyone.  "I do," he admitted quietly.  He glanced up at her, and the fire dancing in her eyes dimmed, compassion filling them instead.  "I do trust you."  

He remembered how he'd said the same thing to T.J. a little over seven hours ago, and Cyrus bit his lip, forcing the lump in his throat down.  

_Do you trust me?_

_Yes.  Of course I trust you._

But now?  Cyrus wasn't so sure anymore.  

Before Cyrus could tuck away the expression on his face, could hide it away until he was in bed later that night to unravel and smooth out his thoughts like tangled yarn, a bullhorn sounded, and Cyrus shrunk down in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose to subside the aching behind his eyes.

"Time to go!" a deep voice said, Dr. Metcalf maybe.  There were too many students and too many sounds and too many of the patterns on the walls were crumpling inward.  A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, his lungs tight in his chest. He shot Buffy a desperate look.  

"You can sit with me," Buffy assured.  Cyrus nodded, exhaled even though he felt like he couldn't.

When they finally boarded the bus, Cyrus caught a glimpse of T.J. in their seat from that morning, looking out the window like he was in his own world.  Cyrus forced himself to glance away, and once the bus driver started up the engine, he grabbed onto Buffy's hand, knuckles white as he squeezed tightly, trying to keep the betrayal from swimming in his chest and sweeping him away.  She had to keep him together before he could erode away into a gaping, hollow chasm.  Before he became just like one of those potholes in the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that ended on a good note! LOL, let me know your thoughts in the comment section below, and hopefully chapter 10 is on its way soon. :)


	10. Make Us Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You finally get the full story. 
> 
> Make sure to check out Di's art for the chapter [here](https://spaceottersart.tumblr.com/post/187501176204/fic-by-cyrusgoodboye-art-by-me-chapter).

Three days.  

It'd been three days away from Cyrus.  Three days without his notes, without the sun that always shone in his words.  Three days without Cyrus’s smile lighting up in him like a cluster of stars ripping open the night sky.

T.J. didn’t know what he expected exactly.  That this knot in his chest would just go away?  That all his problems would be solved and Cyrus would still be waiting for him at the end of the rainbow?

 _Rainbow_.  T.J. would’ve snorted if he weren’t such a mess right now.  

It wasn't like they were fighting.  You had to be talking to be fighting, right?  It was just...silence on both ends. He meant, they hadn't even said anything to each other since Friday, after he'd run off to the bathroom like an idiot, after Reed had confronted him, after he'd realized that…

That he liked Cyrus.  A lot.  

It was still hard to admit it.  Knowing that there were people out there like Reed, people that had known him for years and would never accept that part of him.  That maybe he himself would never accept it, either.  

Clearly T.J. needed to get out of the house.  If only he could make it out of his room… 

A part of him had expected that Cyrus would call him by now, that his voice would wave away the cloud of doubt fogging up his head like a condensed window.  But he hadn’t. Hadn’t even texted him. Not that T.J. had texted him either, or even called. He’d thought about it more than once, had even hovered over the dial button, but something always stopped him right before, caught in his chest like a fishing hook.  So he tossed his phone back into the sea of blankets like his basketball phone case was physically burning him and tried to forget, forget about everything tossing and turning in him until his mind went numb.

Yeah.  So T.J. missed him.  Cyrus was the kind of person you missed even when he was on the other side of the room.  He always brought out that not-so-terrible part of T.J., that nice person on the inside wanting to get out.

Coincidentally, Cyrus also brought out that part of him he didn’t like to dwell on, drew it out of him like water from a bottomless well.  Except now that he couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it, and Cyrus was the only person he could think of to help him.  But T.J. _couldn’t_ ask Cyrus why his heart always stuttered in his chest around him, why sometimes he wanted to kiss (yeah, T.J. was using _that_ word now) Cyrus until the worries in his chest fell away.  And he knew if he ever tried, it would just burst out of him like a spring.  And T.J. didn't think he’d ever be able to stop.  

It was easier, better to just ignore it until it went away.  Even if it _did_ mean forgetting Cyrus.  

God, T.J. couldn’t forget Cyrus even if he tried.  He was so stuck in his head by now that T.J. didn’t think he’d ever be able to get him out.

Anyway…

He missed Cyrus.

 _God_ , he missed Cyrus.  

T.J. snapped his book shut (he’d been so desperate to shut his head up that he’d been trying to drown it out with a book.  On spring _break_ ) and slipped on his gym shoes, sweeping up a worn basketball with his hands.  

 _Maybe playing basketball in the park will get my mind off things_ , T.J. suggested to himself with a shrug.  

If only he’d remembered that his plans never worked out in his favor in the first place… 

* * *

Cyrus was _miserable._

In previous years, spring break had always meant trips to Adrenaline City, canoe rides on the lake, lazy visits to the park… 

Now every time Cyrus saw a swingset, he forced himself to turn away.

He poked at his baby taters, a tell-tale sign that something was wrong, off-kilter.  He'd only refused to eat them once before, and that was over a year ago, right before he'd told Buffy about his crush on Jonah—about how he was...different.  Then he'd been all fear and frayed nerves, anxiety swimming through his bloodstream like bubbling caffeine. Right now he was tired and crumpled inward like used paper and found it hard to stomach anything, _especially_ Jonah and Andi's constant disagreements (one of which they were starting up again at that exact moment).  

He felt Buffy's sigh before he heard it, her shoulders rising up and her chest falling just as the heat of their argument had risen up just loudly enough to sting their ears, and she gestured to the booth behind them with a jerk of her thumb.

"Let's give them a little privacy," Buffy suggested dryly, mouth pulled into a grimace.  Cyrus thought he detected the buzz of annoyance in her voice at the entire routine of it, of how Jonah and Andi's fighting was becoming a normal thing in their group hangouts, but lately everything had started to soften into a low hum, whirring and monotone.  Cyrus couldn't really tell if he was tuning everyone out, too overwhelmed with the sadness swimming in his chest, or was just losing his hearing from his two friends' bickering. _Probably both_ , he decided silently to himself, then thought that was too mean and changed his mind instead.

Instead of bothering with a reply, Cyrus nodded and wordlessly picked up his belongings (although he left his share of their now cold baby taters in their grease-stained basket, his stomach feeling too queasy to choke down any more of them).  The two situated themselves in the booth, Buffy facing away from Jonah and Andi while Cyrus could still make out the faint outline of their heads over the springs of Buffy's hair if he strained in his seat. He slouched down a little more than preferable so he didn't have to see either of them.

"What's wrong?" Buffy asked in a low, curious voice.  She eyed the lingering waitress clearing the table off beside them, as if she could intimidate her into leaving.  To Buffy's credit, she _did_ seem to wipe the tables down faster.  

He pursed his lips, shrugging in a defeated kind of silence.  (It was probably a bad habit he'd picked up from T.J.; T.J. was _constantly_ shrugging.  Cyrus would say it drove him crazy if the memory didn't puncture his heart the way it did right then.)  This felt all too on par with their conversation about his crush on Jonah a few weeks ago, back when Jonah and Andi were still head-over-heels for each other, back when he wasn't questioning his infatuation for Jonah, back when he'd thought he and T.J. would always remain at a distance, never tangled up in each other's lives the way they were now.  Heck, they were even sitting in the same booth; the air even had the same kind of melancholy filling it, hanging over their heads like a stubborn rain cloud. It was like the universe was taunting him, in a twisted sort of way.

The universe had never really been too kind to him in his thirteen (almost fourteen!) years, really.  Becoming friends with Buffy and Andi had been some weird fluke, and everything else seemed to be thrown randomly at his feet, either filling him up with joy or crumbling him down into dust.  Cyrus couldn't decide which one T.J. was supposed to be right now. He was leaning towards the latter.  

Buffy shot him an incredulous look at his obvious silence, and Cyrus shook his head.  "I'm fine. Really," he insisted.

"Cyrus," she said, arching a brow in disbelief.  "We've been best friends since the _second grade._ I think I can tell when you're not fine," she pressed, and suddenly Cyrus wished he had that basket of baby taters with him so he wouldn't have to meet the blazing fire that always danced in her eyes.  He always melted into a puddle of truth and nerves under her gaze, so he settled for staring at the split laminate on the table instead.

"I'm okay!" he squeaked.  It came out a decibel higher than what was natural.  Curse his voice for giving him away so easily!  

" _Cyrus_ ," she drawled on.  He glanced up more out of habit than willingness.  To distract himself, he took a sip of his milkshake, pretending it wasn't tasteless mush like everything else had been the last three days.  

He gulped it down, her eyes still boring holes into him, and he pushed the sweating glass to the side, his hand coming away wet.  He wiped it with a napkin.

"I'm waiting!" Buffy reminded, eyebrows raised and lips pulled into an expectant line.

"Okay, I'm a mess!" he admitted.  His sudden burst took out some of the dull drag that had been hiding in his voice since Friday.  "I'm a mess and I have no idea what to do."

Buffy leaned forward in her booth seat, slightly taken aback if the startled look in her eyes was any indication.  She lowered her voice. "Is this about Jonah?"

Cyrus blinked, brow scrunching together.  He hadn't even given his—well, _whatever_ they were anymore—for Jonah a second of thought.  Everything else in him was so full, cramped with emotions he didn't know what to do with, that he hadn't been able to dwell on it much.  Then, Cyrus realized, he hadn't been talking about Jonah much at all lately, at least not with Buffy, even though he'd been spending more time with him than he normally did.

Feelings were _so_ confusing.  He was a son of four shrinks and even he couldn't sort out his own emotions lately.

"It's about T.J.," he said.  The basketball player's name felt twisted coming out of his mouth, somehow, like he'd stressed the wrong syllable.  Everything about what he had with T.J. had become contorted, warped. Cyrus had kept their notes in his locker over the break just so they wouldn't taunt him for the week.

He'd thought that they were friends.  That T.J. _wanted_ to be his friend, wanted to trust him with his stuff.  Apparently he'd been wrong. So, so _horribly_ wrong.  It just didn't make sense!  Why would T.J. tell him about his math stuff but not about a fight he'd gotten into?

Cyrus was going to have to book an extra therapy session with his stepmom this afternoon just from all of this.

"T.J. _Kippen_ is the person that's had you in this funk for days?" Buffy said.  An exclamation point practically sprung from her voice. "Even after he lied to you about why he got detention?"  

"That's _why_ I'm upset," Cyrus stressed, putting his head down on the table.  "I thought we were friends and that he trusted me, and now…," he trailed off with a frown, and an irritated sigh was drawn from Buffy's lips.  Buffy liked things to be cut and dry, easy to pick apart and sort, and dealing with feelings had never been her strong suit. Cyrus was sure that if there was a way to organize emotions into storage boxes, Buffy would be the person to figure out how.

"He's a terrible person, Cyrus!  You can't play nursemaid to every mean person you come across.  You can't fix everyone—" 

"It's not like that!" Cyrus protested.  His fingers curled around the napkin, then released, downcast.  "He just needed a friend. He's the one who's changing," Cyrus said, maybe more to himself than to Buffy.  "I'm just there for him."

"Well clearly he wasn't there for you," Buffy pointed out.  That boulder weighing his stomach down nearly doubled in weight, gluing him to his booth seat.  His knees felt weak. "Why are you defending him?"

Any words that were sitting on his tongue disappeared, dissolved like warming snow, and something clicked, a final puzzle piece slotting into place.  _It just doesn't make sense!_ he'd thought to himself only seconds ago. _Why would T.J. tell me about his math stuff but not about a fight he'd gotten into?_

Cyrus shook his head a little, realization glinting in his eyes.  "I'm not sure. But...I know that T.J. wouldn't lie to me unless he had a good reason."  He _had_ to have a reason.  Even if Cyrus was on rocky footing with his and T.J.'s friendship right now, he still had that faith in him, that T.J. would choose good in the end, that he'd do the right thing.  

And Cyrus had to let him explain.

"So what are you going to do?" Buffy asked, nose wrinkled.  

Cyrus stood up from his booth, grabbing his jacket, courage stirring in his veins as he stood up with shaky limbs.  "I think I have to ask him."

"Cyrus, don't—" she started, confusion flooding her voice.  "Wait up!"

He was already out the door.

* * *

Reed found him again somehow.  At the basketball court.

T.J. wasn't as angry as he was jarred.  He didn't expect to see _him_ of all people, alone in the park without his friends to back him up.  His first thought was that Reed seemed kind of empty, hollow without his gang of friends following him around.  That was how T.J. had felt after the whole incident, unsure of where to turn after he broke away from all of his old friend group.  From _their_ old friend group.  Cyrus had filled that emptiness, that gaping hole in T.J.'s chest, patched him up like a quilt.  Had made him feel a little less lost.

His second thought, however, as Reed grew closer, was that he wasn't lost at all.  He was still wearing that same manic grin, those same eyes glinting with mischief. It all had used to bring comfort to T.J., stirred something familiar in him, but now he was forced to see it in a harsher light, how his eyes were filled with something more dangerous than mischief, how his smile was crooked on one side, tilted up more than the other.  Uneasiness flooded T.J.'s stomach.

Instead of feeding into his taunting grin, T.J. stared straight at the goal with the ball tilted toward the net, trying desperately to ignore the lump of panic and repressed anger swelling in his throat.  

"Don't miss!" Reed's voice called out, mocking.  The ball flew out of T.J.'s hands, hitting the rim and thudding onto the blacktop.  

 _Just my luck_ , he thought to himself sarcastically.  

Reed swiped the ball from the ground, basketball shorts swishing against pale knees as he dribbled once, then twice.  He leapt up and the ball flew from his fingertips, striking the backboard. The ball toppled back to the concrete, and T.J. smirked to himself.

He faced his old friend, plastering on a sarcastic smile as hard as plastic.  "Maybe you'll be captain next year," T.J. suggested with false nonchalance. His sarcasm stuck out like a sharp needle.

Reed didn't take the bait, his expression steady. "It wasn't my best shot," he admitted, a carefree shrug tilting one of his shoulders.  T.J. waited a beat for the catch as Reed tossed the ball from hand to hand. "It wasn't yours, either. Figure you've lost your touch after hanging around with Goodman."

Reed flicked the ball to T.J., trying to catch him off guard—but T.J. caught the pass with both hands, adrenaline rushing through him, bright and white-hot.  "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. It was such a weird way of looping Cyrus into this, including him in a conversation that had nothing to do with him, but T.J. understood why, got why Reed was doing this.

He was taunting him.  

T.J. didn't know what had happened, what switch had flipped in his old friend's brain, but he didn't used to _be_ like this.  He was Reed, the kid who chipped his tooth after diving headfirst into Lester's pool, the same boy he used to drive motorbikes with until there was so much dust in the air that they couldn't see.  And this…T.J. didn't know who this was. He wasn't sure he wanted to. 

Reed laughed a little to himself under his breath.  T.J.'s skin was starting to burn, like the sun was trying to melt it right off until there was nothing left of him.  "Why are you doing this?" T.J. questioned, a sort of tired sincerity punching his words.  He was tired of the way Reed was making him question his every step, like a wrong move would blow everything around him into shattered glass, would break his world apart.  Tired of everything. "Seriously. I just want it to _stop_."

The manic expression dropped from Reed's face altogether, rapidly being replaced by a cold, hard anger, the kind that could send chills right down to your spine.  T.J. purposely ignored the traitor goosebumps that rose on his arms.  

"This is about you walking away from our four years of friendship for _him_."

T.J. could feel defensiveness rise in him, inching up his throat.  "I _didn't_ walk away from it.  You made that decision for me," he spat.  He clenched down hard on his jaw, trying not to be swept away by his anger.  Because the last time he had, it hadn't exactly ended well… 

* * *

The memory rolled back into his head like ocean waves, swept him up and burned his lungs and stung his throat raw.  

He'd been trying to force his locker combination open, yanking at the lock.  Feeling the whole universe pulling at him in every single direction.  

 _God, I'm gonna be late to class_ again, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes.  Maybe he really _was_ dumb.  He meant, he couldn't even get his stupid _locker_ open.  

The warning bell rang.  

Well.  He guessed he still had enough time to pick it open… 

T.J. sensed a presence behind him just as he reached for the pin he kept in his pocket.  He turned around, then felt his chest squeeze in relief.

"Need your locker opened again?" Reed asked, punching him in the shoulder.  T.J. huffed, trying to seem more annoyed than he actually was.

"Yeah, it won't open," T.J. scoffed.  "I think it hates me or something."

Reed snorted.  "It's not that hard, man," he said, punching in T.J.'s combination.  A sweep of red rose in T.J.'s chest, at himself more than anything. He _knew_ it wasn't hard.  Wasn't supposed to be, anyway, at least not for most people.  It didn't really ever work out that way for him.

Reed pulled at locker with ease, hinges squeaking as it swung open.  "See? It's easy, dude."

 _For you,_ T.J. thought bitterly to himself.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. 

The bell decided to ring just then, almost as if it were taunting him, T.J. was convinced.  He stuffed his books onto different shelves, wondering whether he could get away with leaving his algebra textbook in the trash instead.

"Come on, dude.  We're gonna be late for gym," Reed pointed out, running a hand through his blonde hair.  T.J. nodded along with him, then shut his locker behind him. A flash of dark hair caught his eye, heart stopping.

T.J. stared for a second, then another, a funny feeling pooling in his stomach.  He felt a hand make contact with his shoulder, and he jerked out of his reverie.  

"Dude," Reed scoffed next to him.  T.J. shook his head, a weird knot forming in his throat.  

"What?" T.J. asked, pulling his eyes off of _him_ finally.  Off of Cyrus.

Embarrassment swept through his chest, made the tips of his ears hot.  T.J. hadn't even _met_ Cyrus, and yet there he was, openly staring at him in the middle of the hallway.  Like an idiot.

Reed looked at him weirdly.  T.J. wanted to peel back all the layers to his face, but Reed turned away before he could, beginning to walk forward.  "Nothing, man. Let's go, or Bag won't let us play basketball."

T.J. paused.  He peeked at Cyrus again out of the corner of his eyes, heard his laugh like ringing bells.  He was talking to… 

To Jonah Beck.  His stomach turned for whatever reason.

He looked away, followed Reed to the boys' locker room.  Tried not to think about the thoughts rising in his head like hot air.

* * *

T.J. wasn't obsessed with Cyrus or anything weird like that.  He wasn't.  He just…felt this weird pull to him. He knew it sounded weird, especially for someone he'd never officially talked to, at least, so he kept it to himself, knew Reed and Lester wouldn't understand, but sometimes he was afraid that Reed knew more than he was letting on.  Reed could be observant, and sometimes that scared T.J., how much was thrumming under the surface with his best friend; it was hard to guess what he was thinking. T.J. had known him for four years, and even he wasn't sure most of the time.

Yeah.  So T.J. didn't tell anyone else about it.  It was probably for the best, anyway.  T.J. didn't entirely understand it himself either.

He hurriedly threw his gym T-shirt on, exchanged his jeans for basketball shorts, kept his tennis shoes on.  He pushed his way out the door. Reed was already out in the gym with a basketball tucked under his arm with Lester by his side.  And…Driscoll?

Confused, he approached Reed.  His tennis shoes squeaked under the gym floors, the newly placed wax from the summer already scuffed and wearing thin.  

"What's going on?" he asked.  He tried to ignore _her_ , Buffy, but the same kind of anger that was filling in his chest in the hallway was sweeping over him now, too, like when he was so frustrated he could feel it pooling in his mouth. 

Something about her just rubbed him the wrong way.  He'd noticed it back at tryouts in seventh grade, how unnervingly  _confident_ she was, how she moved the ball like she was the only one on the court.  

T.J. talked to the coach right after.  Told him that they couldn't have her on the team, threatened to quit if she was accepted.  It'd worked. He meant, he was the captain. Of course it did.

He snatched the ball under Reed's arm to distract himself from the weird feeling consuming him from the inside.  He dribbled it, the noise monotone by his feet.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

"Bag said we have to let her play on our team because we were late," Reed scoffed.  He didn't even bother hiding his disdain; his annoyance splayed across his face like a painting.  

T.J.'s stomach fell, twisted together.  Like it was trying to collapse itself. Or maybe collapse him from the inside.  

He scoffed.  He wasn't exactly sure who it was targeted at; it scared him that it seemed mostly directed at himself.  "Fine, whatever. Me and Driscoll versus you and Lester." He handed her the basketball, an olive branch of sorts, maybe, T.J. wasn't sure.  He just knew he didn't want to drown in old feelings, that stale anger and something else (g _uilt_ , his brain screamed at him) that he reserved for her; he had enough new emotions to deal with as it was.

"No," she finally spoke.  Her voice was more sarcastic than T.J. remembered, feigned sweetness.  All his old annoyance came rushing back to the surface. "Me and _Lester_ against you guys."

"Fine."  T.J. matched her false smile, eyes steel.  He plucked the ball out of her hands, and her smile dimmed for a second, fire igniting in her eyes.  It was almost too easy to rile her up. T.J. sort of missed it, just the smallest bit. "Us first."

Buffy put on that sugary-sweet smile again.  T.J.'s throat burned. "Sure thing, T.J."

She checked the ball with him, and the second it was back in his fingertips, T.J. was dribbling, inching closer to the net.  Reed was wrestling away from Lester, who was blocking him, and T.J. held his breath, tossing the ball into the net without even blinking.  It fell through the net, and relief went through his chest. He couldn't lose to Buffy, couldn't let _her_ of all people be right. 

She was already better than him at everything, anyway.  He didn't need this taken away from him, too. If it was, T.J. didn't know what he would do… 

* * *

"That game was totally rigged, bro."  Reed poured water into his mouth from his water bottle, wiped his mouth messily to get rid of the excess.  A drop landed on T.J.'s boiling skin, and he rolled his eyes.

 _Slayer, Slayer, Slayer!_ He could still hear the chanting ringing in his ears after she'd beaten them, that last toss swishing through the net, T.J.'s fingertips barely brushing the ball as he tried to stop it.  Tried to stop _her._

Defeat immediately flooded through his chest, that awful feeling of trying his hardest but still not being good enough.  Just like when he spent hours studying for a math test and Mr. Coleman still failed him anyway.

_Slayer, Slayer, Slayer!_

T.J. flexed his jaw, muscles shifting.  Maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut tightly enough, he'd disappear. 

"We should get back at her."  

T.J. blinked, taken aback.  His eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"

Reed shrugged, eyes smug.  "Get a little revenge, you know.  Show her not to mess with us."

He remembered the gloating in her eyes that filled immediately after she won, that sarcastic smile directed straight at T.J.  How, somehow, that stupidly fake smirk felt like being called not good enough, useless, _stupid_.  

T.J. huffed slightly, mouth curving.  "Yeah. Let's do it."

When Buffy turned her back, Reed immediately drifted over to the pink duffel bag that Buffy had abandoned on the gymnasium bleachers.  He dug through it while T.J. took look out; they hadn't really discussed it, hadn't even formulated a plan, really, but it was one of those unspoken rules best friends had.  T.J. went along with Reed's stupid schemes, Reed didn't bring up his weird thing with Cyrus. Stuff like that.

"Aha!" Reed declared behind him.  T.J. turned to him, eyes flickering down to the object in Reed's hands.

"What'd you find?"

Reed flipped over the item—a phone, T.J. realized—eyes glinting with mischief the way they always did.  Something was pressing against T.J.'s chest, a hand weighing on his heart, somehow, but he pushed it down, gave his attention to Reed instead.  Even if he _did_ have a conscience, T.J. didn't even know that he'd ever listen to it. Or if he'd even be able to.

"Dude, I wonder what she's keeping on here," Reed huffed, clearly amused.  

T.J. shrugged.  "What’re you gonna do with it?"

Reed seemed to silently weigh the options as he searched for the power button, head tilting to the side as he did so.  "Dunno. What do you think the passcode is?" The phone flickered to life, the background of her and an older woman in a military uniform, probably her mom, T.J. guessed.  Something—guilt, maybe, T.J. wasn't sure—rose up in the back of his throat.  

"Dude, let's just put it back," T.J. tried, trying to sound casual.  He cast a glance over his shoulder. No one was paying them any attention, luckily.  He hoped it stayed that way. "C'mon, we can get her back another way."   

Reed's eyes lit up.  Not in the lightbulb kind of way, but in the dangerous fire kind of way, like just being near him would burn you up from the inside out.  T.J.'s stomach twisted uneasily.  

"Bro, no way…look at this text she got!"  Laughter swept up in his throat, hand grasping at his shirt, and any anger T.J. was holding against Buffy suddenly sank down to his shoes, rapidly being replaced with fear as the screen blinked back at him.

_Buffy, help me!  I think Jonah might be catching onto my crush on him...unless I'm being paranoid?  Please tell me I'm being paranoid. -Cyrus, Good Hair Crew Member #3._

Another round of laughter escaped from Reed's mouth, sharp and piercing and echoing off the gym's concrete walls, and the edges of T.J.'s vision grew blurry.  His throat went tight.

"Dude, that's hilarious.  We gotta tell someone," he said, nudging T.J. in the bicep.

"Wait, what?"  T.J. asked, confused.  "What would we do with it?"

Reed snorted.  "Who knows? Say it on the intercom.  At the next pep rally, maybe. That'll show Buffy not to act like she's better than us."

"What do you mean?"  His voice was growing defensive, bleeding through the casual veil he'd placed, but he couldn't help it; when it came to Cyrus, T.J. never could, even if he didn't entirely understand it.

He scoffed, voice gnarled, somehow, like the knots in T.J.'s stomach.  "If we embarrass Gayman, then we hurt Driscoll. What's the problem here?"

Surprise caught T.J. by the throat.  He didn't…he meant, he didn't think… 

The words rang back in his head.  _If we embarrass Gayman, then we hurt Driscoll.  What's the problem here?_

There were a lot of problems.  Like that Reed was going to embarrass Cyrus, go too far over a line that T.J. didn't want to cross.  Hurt Buffy, too, maybe. And maybe the biggest problem of all was that T.J. wasn't stopping him.

He swallowed down his doubt, courage inching up his veins.  "You can't do that."  

Reed laughed, like T.J. was joking.  "Why not, dude? It'll be funny. You ever see the way her face gets when she's mad?  Priceless."

That same guilty feeling clawed at his throat.  Red flooded behind his eyelids. "I'm serious. This isn't funny."  

He snatched the phone out of Reed's hands and tossed it back into Buffy's duffel bag.  All the amusement on Reed's face melted off like draining the blue right from the sky. His mouth was stone, eyes cold.  Challenging. "Who's gonna stop me?"

T.J. pushed him forward, fists clenched, let the anger living in him take over.  Then the whole world turned black, like the sun had disappeared for good. And, maybe in that moment, it had.

He didn't really remember what happened next, exactly.  Well, he remembered the thud that followed when Reed fell to the floor, the way it rattled his chest.  He remembered the skin around Reed's eye bursting into shades of blue and purple under his fist. And his classmates chanting over and over, how it was so loud that it filled T.J.'s ears until everything shuttered into white noise.  Then a hand yanking at his shoulder, trying to rip him away from Reed, trying to make him _stop_.  But he couldn't.  

And most of all T.J. remembered the fire alarm piercing through it all for a reason he didn't understand at the time, making the hair on his arms stand straight… 

It was a miracle he hadn't been expelled.  That was Dr. Metcalf's doing, he guessed. Offered that he go to detention after school, community service at a children's gymnasium, Jackson's Gym, on the weekends… 

And then he met Cyrus.  And he chose to lie instead of telling him the truth, because _how_ could he tell Cyrus the truth when the reason he'd beat up Reed in the first place was because he was defending him, a boy that he'd never even talked to, not once?  He'd just seem like a freak. And he couldn't take away his only chance with Cyrus.

* * *

The basketball in T.J.'s hands was suddenly snatched from his grip, his reality unfolding around him like a propped open book.  He blinked, seeing Reed rolling his eyes, a scoff building in the back of his throat. It clawed at T.J.'s stomach in a way he couldn't explain.  

"Come _on_ , all I did was call him _one_ little name—"

"You were gonna embarrass him," T.J. argued, shaking his head defensively.  "Tell the whole school."

Reed huffed, and T.J.'s stomach burned, scorched him up like stale smoke.  "So what? It's not my fault that he was talking to Driscoll on her phone."

"You shouldn't have stolen it in the first place."  The same heat from that day crept up his neck, and Cyrus's words from last week flashed in his head.  _Don't let him get to you._

He sighed, unclenched the fists that had balled up at his sides.  Tried to drain the anger from his chest.

"Don't act so high and mighty, Kippen."  His voice grew mocking. "You only got mad when I dragged Cyrus into it."  T.J.'s eyes flashed dangerously, and Reed's gaze fell on his hands twitching at his sides.  "Hit me again.  I'll just tell everyone the real reason you beat me up. Because you have a crush on Goodman."

T.J. swallowed and took a step back.  Reed's teeth flashed victoriously, amused in that twisted way of his. The smugness that framed his smile buzzed on T.J.'s skin.  

"I don't know what you're talking about," T.J. huffed, averting his eyes.  Trying to keep his fear from drowning him. _He knows.  He knows, he knows, he knows.  And he's gonna tell_ everyone _._

Reed scoffs.  "Don't act like you don't know.  I see the way you look at him. And writing him those stupid notes?  As if it's not obvious," he shook his head and blew the stray blonde strands falling in his eyes.  "Honestly, I mean, maybe I don't need to tell anyone you like him. Everyone probably knows if they paid any attention."  

"You can't do that," T.J. tried, clenching his jaw.  

"Give me one reason as to why I can't."

T.J. breathed in, mind reeling.  He was grasping for something, _anything_ to keep Reed's stupid mouth shut.  "I'll tell Dr. Metcalf what really happened," T.J. threatened, mouth plastic.  He hoped some fear stuck in Reed, at least long enough so that T.J. could get a grip on _this_ , this thing living inside him, deep and wide and _consuming._ He hadn't even had enough time to come fully to terms with it.  He hadn't, and it wasn't _fair_ , not how this was supposed to happen.  He was supposed to get more _time_ than this.

Reed's seemingly permanent smirk lost some of its steel, and the wicked, vengeful glint in his eyes dimmed a little.  T.J. sighed a little in relief, but he was still holding most of his breath, waiting for Reed to pull the rug from underneath his feet.  He wanted to exhale, so badly that his chest ached, but he knew he couldn't. So he didn't. Just held it in until he couldn't anymore.

Reed held his hands up in a mock surrender.  "I see we've reached a stalemate." He snorted, haughty in that way he always did, and began to shuffle away.  "See you around, Cap.

As he watched him move out of his line of sight, disappearing in the trees, T.J. rolled over their conversation in his head, couldn't tell if he meant it.  That they'd reached a stalemate. He couldn't tell a lot of things anymore. It was like the world had shifted off its axis, and, to be fair, maybe it had. Reed wasn't the same friend he used to be, funny and laid back and whose main concern was only about getting a homerun in baseball, racing T.J. across an imaginary finish line in the middle of the desert.  Then again, T.J. wasn't the same guy either, the one who'd kicked a girl off the basketball team, beat up his best friend… 

Well, at least he _hoped_ not.  He was trying, anyway.  He hoped that that was enough.

* * *

T.J. messed with the lock, pin shifting in the keyhole.  The number at the top flashed under the dim overhead lights.  _120._

He remembered a month ago, when he didn't know how to approach _him._ Cyrus, whose eyes were brighter than the whole hallway.  How T.J. wanted some of that brightness, too.  He wondered if that was what drew him in, that light that lived in Cyrus.  T.J. had anger living in him instead; Cyrus made it better, though. He made everything better.  Golden.  

The pin fumbled in his hand as a round of cheers sounded from the nearby gym, and T.J. nearly cursed under his breath.  He'd known there was a volleyball game today; it was how he knew the doors to the school would be unlocked in the first place, but the least they could do was be a _little_ more quiet when he was trying to break open Cyrus's locker.  Was there no consideration in this school?

He pressed his ear against the door, and a click sounded behind the metal.  He yanked at the handle victoriously, the door willingly swinging open. Cyrus's locker was _much_ more cooperative than his own.

T.J. reached up, hand feeling around blindly, and he pulled out a stack of papers from the top shelf, the notes Cyrus kept up there next to his artbox.  He didn't know why…he meant, he wasn't sure what drew him here of all places, right when his world seemed to be falling apart.

But T.J. wanted answers, answers about him, answers about what all he felt for Cyrus.  And maybe these notes had some.

The one on top caught his eye in particular, from just a few days ago, and a ghost of a smile played at his lips.  He stuffed the rest of the notes in his pocket, shutting the locker door with a soft click and leaning against it as he scanned over the paper.  

_I like your green jacket!  Looks good with your eyes. -Cyrus, AKA "The Color Consultant" (it's a work-in title!)_

_You look at my eyes?_

_Of course not!  I mean, not on purpose!  Sorry, that was a weird thing to say._

_Nah, it's okay.  You look good in blue, too.  Also...The Color Consultant?_

_Thanks...also, do you like it?_

_Yeah, I do.  Suits you._

_Is that a compliment?  I can never tell with people._

_Yeah, it's a compliment.  I like your nicknames, Underdog._

T.J. huffed fondly to himself, rolling his eyes.  Yeah, he didn't know why he was looking for answers here.  There was nothing he didn't already know in them. They just proved that he had a big stupid crush on Cyrus, something that was so large that it seemed bigger than the whole world sometimes.  

"What are you looking at?"

T.J. jerked his head up at the voice, reflexively slipping the note into his pocket with the rest of them.  He inhaled, trying to steady his chest.

"Nothing," he lied smoothly, shrugging.  He came out casual on the outside, but inside he was explosive fireworks and frayed nerves and being split right down the middle.  

Cyrus smiled, small, but there was something off about it, like if T.J. poked holes into it, it might just break.

"I didn't peg you as a volleyball fan," Cyrus remarked.

T.J. relaxed into his words.  He knew it had been a weird, strained few days since they last talked, but it almost felt like normal between them.  Almost.

"I didn't peg you as one, either," T.J. replied easily.  He took a step forward, hesitant, like the tiles on the school floors would crack if he moved too suddenly.  "Is that why you're here?

"Um, no.  Actually."  A pause. His lips were pursed in that familiar way that sent T.J.'s chest flying over the edge.  "I came to talk to you."

T.J.'s lungs stopped in his chest.  "How'd you know I'd be here?" His eyebrows drew together.  It hadn't been exactly planned; he meant, he'd just been strolling down the sidewalk in town after his confrontation with Reed, and then he'd found himself pushing through the school doors without really even paying attention.  He was going to go break into the detention room originally, just to _think_ , iron out his thoughts, but Cyrus's locker caught his eye before he'd even gotten the chance to.  

Cyrus pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping on the screen a few times.  Snaptalk GPS gleamed back at him, and T.J. fought off a smile. Of _course._ Cyrus loved sleuthing.

"Oh, okay," T.J. said.  The air had an edge to it, an underlying static.  His heart stuttered in his chest. "What's up?"

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Cyrus pressed hesitantly.  He took a step forward again, and T.J.'s heart decided to stop altogether. "About why you got detention."

Then the whole world did.  

The same stream of thoughts he'd had in the park poured in, different meaning to them this time.  _He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows._

"Who told you?" T.J. managed to get out.  He _knew_ this day would roll around eventually, the day where Cyrus found out about him and all the secrets he’d been keeping locked away, and now it'd caught up with him when he'd been trying to run away from it.  Was _that_ why Cyrus hadn't bothered texting him since Friday, why things seemed a few degrees off center between them?

God, Cyrus probably hated him.  Thought they shouldn't be friends anymore.  And he was here to tell him in person.  Of course.  It was all making sense now.

"Buffy," Cyrus admitted, lips tucked together, eyebrows scrunched together. T.J. nodded, focusing on the dial of the lock next to him.  He couldn't meet Cyrus's eyes; he was afraid of what he'd see if he did.

Another step forward.  "Teej," he started.  

T.J. looked at him finally, green on brown, and he just kept on looking forward, drowning in Cyrus's eyes, Cyrus's smile, maybe just Cyrus in general.  It was hard not to.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

T.J. sighed, ran a hand through his hair.  He wished Cyrus's voice wasn't so calm; he wanted to lash out and let everything welled in him pour out, spill over.  "I dunno." He was growing defensive, invisible walls building between them. T.J. tried again. "I didn't want you to look at me like I'm this…this scary basketball guy.  The way everyone looks at me." He scoffed at how vulnerable, how _lame_ he sounded.  Cyrus didn't deserve to have to put up with this, with him.  With none of it.

"I don't see that when I look at you,"  Cyrus protested, eyes wide, brow furrowed together the way it usually was.  He placed a hand on T.J.'s bicep comfortingly, and T.J. wondered when Cyrus’s touch started to feel like sparks of fire flying across his skin.  Then he wondered if Cyrus had ever made him feel normal at all. Around Cyrus, T.J. wasn’t even exactly sure what normal was.  

"Then _what_ ," T.J. stated bluntly.  "What do you see?"  He wanted to look away, but he couldn't, not when _Cyrus_ was right there, boring into him like he knew all the secrets of the universe.  For a second, he was afraid he was stuck on Cyrus's face, maybe for all eternity, even.  

He decided maybe that wasn't such a horrible punishment.  

Cyrus's hand slipped down his arm, hovered on his wrist.  T.J. prayed to whatever god existed that he couldn't feel his pulse right then, pounding and explosive and about to leap right out of his skin.  "You're better than you think, T.J. You're…," Cyrus trailed off, and T.J.'s fingers twitched at his side, itched to intertwine their hands. Hoped Cyrus didn't notice.  Or maybe hoped that he did. Maybe a little of both. "You're one of my favorite people in the whole world," he finished, voice low, so low that T.J. had to strain to catch it. 

Cyrus's hand inched down even further, fingers brushing against T.J.'s.  T.J. swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.  

"You're the only person I can talk to like this," T.J. admitted with the little breath he had left.  He said it like it was a confession, maybe because it was, he guessed. T.J. had a lot of things he needed to admit, but he wasn't ready to say most of it out loud yet.  Not to the air, at least, not when people could eavesdrop, not when T.J. could hear it echo back into his ears and let it torture him over and over and over again.  

Applause sounded from the gym, and Cyrus jumped back, the fingers ghosting on T.J.'s hand disappearing.  T.J. decided he sort of hated volleyball right then.  

"I just…," Cyrus started, then stopped.  He sighed, trying again. "I just want to know why.  What happened that made you hurt him?"

T.J. sighed through his mouth, hadn't wanted the moment to end so soon.  Had wanted to avoid this question for as long as he could, really, but Cyrus was always looking for answers to the million questions that lived in his head, and T.J. wanted to give them to him.

At least partially.  T.J. didn't think he was ready to tell Cyrus the exact truth, the finer details of what had happened.  He didn't think he was ready to tell anyone. "Me and Reed were late to gym that day and…we had to play basketball with Buffy because of it."  He scoffed to himself. "I think Coach Bag thought he was punishing us or something."

"But wasn't he?" Cyrus asked.  "I mean, you used to really hate her."

He huffed.  Cyrus wasn't wrong; it was what got him into this mess in the first place.  "I don't anymore, but…yeah. I did. And she ended up beating me and Reed in the game, and, I don't know, I guess that really got to me."

"And?" Cyrus pressed on, eyebrows raised.  

" _And_ ," T.J. continued, tilting his head to the side, "we decided to, you know.  Get revenge, or something. It sounds so stupid now. But I went along with it. And then I started to feel guilty, I don't know. And I put a stop to it. He wouldn't listen, so…" 

"You punched him," Cyrus finished for him.  T.J. was glad; he couldn't get the words past the roof of his mouth.  "And then you got detention with me."

T.J. nodded, lips pursed.  Cyrus stepped forward and finally took his hand, squeezed it like he was trying to keep T.J. and all the little pieces he was broken into together.  He let go after a single beat, and T.J.'s heart fell.  More than he wanted to admit. "Well, I still think of you as T.J., the guy with all the confidence in the world.  Not some scary basketball guy."

T.J. snorted, pretended like his stomach wasn't doing somersaults.  "Even though I gave someone a black eye?"

Cyrus smiled slightly.  "Well, even though I don't condone it, yeah, I do.  You're still you." They shared a smile, bright enough that T.J.'s eyes ached.  " _Although_ , to be fair, violence isn't necessarily the best answer—"

"Thank you, Cyrus," T.J. interrupted, smile fond.  He had to stop him before he got him going (even though watching Cyrus go on one of his spiels was kind of cute.  Well, _more_ than kind of, but whatever, that was besides the point).  "Seriously. I wish I told you back then, but I was—"

"—scared?" Cyrus guessed.  He nodded. "I didn't think you could be scared of _anything._ "

T.J. wanted to say, _I always am.  You scare me, Cyrus.  The way you make me feel scares me more than anything._ Instead, he asked, "Wanna go catch the rest of that volleyball game with me?"

Cyrus's eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth turned, an expression T.J. had missed so much that it made his chest ache.  

"Yeah," Cyrus said, trying to sound nonchalant.  T.J. could see right through it, how his excitement bled through his words.  "I would."

They began their journey down the hallway, hands bumping against each other as they walked, and everything in T.J.'s chest spilled over.  He tried to swallow down everything sweeping through him like a sandstorm. This crush on Cyrus was _never_ going to go away, was it?

T.J. didn’t even know why he bothered asking himself that.  He already knew the answer.

 _No_ , he answered for himself.  He wasn’t even sure how he’d fallen for Cyrus Goodman before even knowing him, but now that they were friends, he wasn’t sure he’d ever find his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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